The Butterfly Effect
by AleTheHOUSEwife
Summary: COMPLETE! On a freezing, rainy november night, House has a nightmare.   The same death scene haunts him all day long, while he's trying to solve a mistery and meanwhile getting Cuddy what she wants.  Written in 2009, this is set somewhere after 5x06.
1. Chapter 1

**The Butterfly Effect**

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* * *

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House/Cuddy, Wilson

Drama, Mystery, Romance, Comedy

* * *

Author's notes: so, just before you start this journey, few words on my work are due.

This story consists of 28 chapters, written in approximately two months, between january and february, 2009: that's why Kutner and Cameron are still there. Back then, House, M.D. was in its 5th season, right after House and Cuddy shared their first kiss in 5x06. I've never liked the whole Cuddy and baby storyline, so in my story Cuddy is not a mother. Joy is lost and she is recovering from the tragedy and the close encounter with the love of her life. Fact 2 is that I like hallucination episodes. I like them so much I can't even count all the fanfictions I've imagined where something like that happens. I've written down this one only, though. And that's because I conceived it like a series finale, some kind of a two-episodes arc that finally sets things ready to continue offscreen, with the right amount of fan speculation. We've come to the third fact: this is an open final fiction: it will have a proper ending, but there will still be room for your imagination to be unleashed. You will find a patient of the week medical mystery, because I can't write any House fiction without that. And there will be a major medical mystery, but I won't tell you anything else about this one, because it's the main part of the story. Just beware: if you don't like medical stuff, this is not the right story. It's full of it. If you like romance stuff, though, I'm pretty sure the story will satisfy your needs, and I secretly hope everyone will love my resolutions on the House/Cuddy story. IC-ness was my primary concern in writing this.

Final note: this story was originally written in Italian, because that is my mother tongue. I haven't got any beta readers, I just rely on my English and my Bachelor in Literature & Linguistics ;)

* * *

Chapter 1

Strings on skin. Just the tension of his fingers dancing through the minor chords, and the wooden, warm nuanced 1967 Gibson. It was time: if he'd wasted even one more minute, it would have been too late. The thing inside would have restrained him forever after, trapped in invisible handcuffs. He took off in the thin, sharp november rain, flying through the breeze of the night. He had always hurt people. He would manipulate relationships for the sake of not handling them: he simply couldn't. He could not tell a true word of love, despite what he would hid inside. He was miserable and had started to make misery his personal business, as long as he had always managed to make every other person around him at least a bit as miserable as he was. He wasn't right. He wasn't the right person, the right man. For anyone. He was simply inapt to the real world: constantly trying to escape the misery of it, the bad, the mistake that lied in everything he had experienced, he'd finally come to carry its whole weight on his own shoulders. And that was more than enough for one man. And then he knew that the right time had come. He just felt as he was finally ready to share his load with someone else, to give a portion of his pain to a person that would embrace it alongside him, someone who would unwrap his awkwardness and unveil the burning fire that was inside, warm as sunrise. He took the bike and flew in the night and the rain, leaving solitude behind.

He rode through the city streets, away from the other side of himself, the scared, lonely side, secretly hoping that that one ride could bring him his personal fair share of daylight. The slick road surface reflected the colored beams of street lamps and traffic lights: it was his personal midnight hour. And it was actually so late that there were no cars around. He knew how to get there: he had walked those streets many times before, always with a diagnosis baffling him and the chill that the mere sight of her always managed to send down his spine, as soon as she would reach him at the doorstep. That was what he had done that one night, which was so different from any other, when he had finally realized they were made to love each other, to average their misery. That night, they shared a kiss. Then time had started to tear them apart. He was so intensely taken by that precious, rare lack of rationality, that his eyes didn't catch the lights of a Land Rover coming from his left hand side, skipping its stop at the crossroads. It was quick as lightning: he didn't feel the crash, the wet road, anything.

* * *

House woke up in his bed and it was 7 a.m.

He managed to find some Vicodin and poured fresh water on his face. The damn aching leg was more than awake. Shower and breakfast were quick: thirty minutes later he was riding his bike to the hospital in the warm, sunny morning that had followed a rainy night and the nightmare whose thrill he could still feel in the fast beats of his heart. He slipped through the automatic doors that stood at the entrance of the main hall.

– Geez, House. It's 8 sharp. What are you doing here? You've got a case. –

– Good morning, Sunshine. – He didn't manage to escape. She had blocked him with the advantage of surprise, and now he was stuck between her and the reception desk.

– Male, 35, came in last night. ER told us... –

– I don't... – He tried to dribble at his right. She grabbed his left arm just before he could. –I don't care! –

– Diffused pain, suspect artritis... – He sidestepped at her right. The elevator was so close. Damn close. – But, House... –

He turned back.

– He has pain in each and every articulation. –

– Give me the file. –

She was so beautiful. So different from the fading mirage of his nightmare.

She smiled.

– Not yet. –

– Cuddy. The file. –

– Well. – She looked at him. She was definitely checking him up, the pretty little... Ok, he just had to do something for her. Now, the problem was _what_.

He'd just managed to reach the elevator button with the tip of his cane. He was inside, she was outside. And the blue case file was right between them, standing hands on it. He pulled. Last resort. He just managed to get her in the elevator, alongside the file, that was still in her hands. The door closed.

– So, next weekend PPTH will host an annual conference. East coast Deans of Medicine gathering to waste some time together, raise funds, a little gambling, sex, alcohol and the alike. –

He stared at her, eyes wide open. – Nice, you're gonna have a dozen middle-aged, rich playboys at your feet. Have you set shifts yet? –

– No, you idiot. It's a medical conference. – The secret smile. He detected it. She wore it when she didn't want to openly laugh at his jokes. – Thing is: you've had quite a bunch of interesting cases in the past year, and we need a main theme for the lecturers. –

– Oh, no. Please. You're not gonna... –

– I am. – She tightened the grip on the case file, pressing it to her chest.

– I go out on Fridays. –

– And with whom? –

– Wilson. –

– You don't wanna lie to me. –

– I'm not... –

– You are. Wilson spends his Friday nights taking extra shifts. Pediatry. He's been doing that for 8 years now. –

– Give me the case. –

– Only if "Dr. Gregory House will give a lecture on Diagnostic medicine to all the attendees of the Annual Congress of the East Coast Medical Schools." All those manly Deans will be so jealous that I have you. Make your decision: I have till midday to arrange for brochures. –

– Do I really have a choice? –

– Actually? No, you haven't. – She smiled at him, handed him the case file, disappeared in the crowd of the fourth floor.

– 'Morning everyone. – House threw the leather jacket on the nearer chair and hit Kutner. Thirteen missed his helmet, which was caught by Foreman right before it could break the plate-glass office table. They all looked at their boss in visible relief. At least they hadn't to tell Cuddy that House used to play basketball while discussing differentials.

– Asymmetric unstable artritis, asthenia, weight loss, hair loss, two weeks like this before thinking that he could see a doc. –

– Radiation poisoning? – Kutner came out of House's black jacket just in time to suggest his diagnosis. He finally threw away the obnoxious thing. – What does he do? –

– American Airlines co-pilot. No dark, secret past in Chernobyl. – House barely managed to wipe the grin off his face. Kutner submersed in his jacket was a show no one would have missed, certainly not him.

– Sleep disease. Africa, long flights to dangerous places, no vaccinations... –

– Never went there. He's on national flights. Boston, Washington D.C. and somewhere west. – Taub quoted the anamnesis,. –"somewhere west" ... –

House wandered through the office. Desk. Window. Desk. Wilson was in talking to a patient of his own, he could see him through the windowpanes that separated their offices. – The great imitator... – He talked to himself, lost in a personal, inside labyrinth. He noticed the small, handy bookshelf that stood nearby his desk: there was a green, hard leather covered medicine manual. The team was debating. Foreman made some coffee and didn't notice anything. Each beeper went off that exact moment: they left the room. When an upset nurse showed them where the patient should have been, they realized that both the bed and the room were absolutely empty. And so was the entire floor: their patient was missing. They called Cuddy, who called Reception, who called Security.

* * *

Chase was waiting for Cameron in the hospital park. It was Tuesday. A man was sitting by his side on the wooden bench. A patient. He looked pretty confused, his eyes were closed and he seemed to be just letting the warm sun shine on him.

– Sir, are you ok? –

He didn't know the entire hospital was in lockdown because of his new mate. He was just wondering where Cameron was and why she wasn't already there.

– Sir, I'm a doctor. Are you ok? – He hit his retins with a small flashlight: he was not responsive._ Crap. Epilepsy on Tuesdays_.

Ten minutes later, the patient was undergoing a treatment with benzodiazepins, while the team gathered in House's office with a new symptom to discuss.

– He's on Clonazepam, had a crisis while in the garden. Chase took him inside. – Taub updated his boss, the only one who had spent the last hour lying on the floor with fusion-jazz on the Sota turntable, while every person in the hospital was searching his patient.

– What was Chase doing outside? – He turned the speakers off.

– It's Tuesday. – Foreman made it quick and easy.

– Long time exposure to electro-magnetic radiations might compromise his central nervous system and give him epilepsy that he didn't tell us about. Maybe this is not the first time it happens. –

– Kutner. For how long should a person be exposed to magnetic radiations, before displaying even the slightest sign of epilepsy? Can you imagine? –

– So, Foreman, let's hear your idea. –

– Radio sets on the plane, Transmitters and the alike, old cathodic tube tv sets, maybe he lives nearby some nasty antenna. –

– Taub, we're talking of poisoning. How long should he be exposed to that? –

House was distracted, checking the bookshelf. He turned back to the team. – Foreman, if you want to personally contribute without thinking about your idea, go see if he cuts the grass on Sundays nearby a gigantic AT&T antennae jungle. Take Taub with you. –

They left.

– If he leaves nearby cables and electric towers, the field intensity might have irritated his central nervous system. – Thirteen was starting to get her own idea on what had happened to the patient.

– Maybe it's short waves. High frequency causes termic reactions, the body slowly absorbing radiations might have just shown the first symptoms for the first time. –

House left Thirteen and Kutner debating, to actually go and see the patient.

He was under anti-convulsives. Sedated, nice and easy. There would have been absolutely no need to talk. Just a brief checkup from the glass door.

– Hey there. –

– Not you... –

– What are you doing, hangin' around here? –

– Going to see the patient. –

She leaned towards him.

– I don't believe you. –

– Okey-dokey... – He tried to slip away.

– Oh, no. You don't "see patients". You try to avoid me, slipping silently through corridors. You walk near the walls. –

– I won't walk near a wall. Ever. Promise. – And again, she blocked his way to the patient's room.

– Need you in my office. Now. –

– Ah, woman. I knew the time would come. –

– We have a deal, remember? –

– I'm gonna come. In the afternoon. Now I have to see my patient. –

– You come with me now, or you take a clinic shift. Give or take. Waiting room's full of sick people. And. I don't believe you. –

He chose the clinic.

Foreman saved him from a third trimester mom-to-be whining for having experienced nausea during the _first_ trimester.

– There's a burn. Or so it seems. –

– It's shaped like... he didn't have sunglasses this morning, did he? –

– It's definitely similar to a sunburn. –

– It's _november_. –

– Extra-sensitivity to light. Radiations from short waves. I was right. That's nice... – A happy, satisfied Kutner went out the room, where a perplexed House stood silent.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

– We didn't find anything. – Foreman and Taub were back from the search.

– He's out for work most of the time, and he lives in the countryside of Princeton. He's got an harmless laptop and a flat tv screen. Nothing that could screw up as that. –

– Still, the symptoms fit with radiations. And he has a burn. – Kutner was _so_ sure.

– Cathodic tubes in the cabin. Plane monitors use those. –

– It's 2009. –

– No need for remodeling. At least until Al-Qaeda manages to destroy the whole American Airlines fleet. Trat him for radiation poisoning and tell him to find a new job. – House slowly walked out, painfully limping.

– What's with him today? – Thirteen looked at the man in the corridor. He was headed to Wilson's office.

– It's worse than ever. What else is with him, we should say. –

– He's not ok with the diagnosis. –

– Or he's sick. –

– Taub, since when he's not sick? –

– I didn't mean... sick in his leg. I meant... tormented by something. –

– Good morning my friend. Would you like a trip to the golf court before our next cocktail party? –

– Good morning, House. I'm with a patient. After you stop finding random excuses to look for my attention, what can I do for you? –

– We can go to the court together and... –

– See you in thirty minutes, House. In the doctors' room. Bye. –

So, nobody had time for him. Neither Cuddy, nor Wilson. What a shame, it would have been his first time sharing a nightmare with someone else. That was disturbing. All day long, the vivid images of his rainy night had been haunting him: he could still feel the clash of iron and steel, and the sense of tragedy overwhelming his whole self. It was like he was still on the street, in the dark, under the pouring rain. It had been like that since he had gotten up. And worst of all, that feeling of things left unsaid hit him harder everytime he saw her: Cuddy with the case file, Cuddy in the elevator, Cuddy in the hospital corridors. With a solved case, he didn't have anything else to think of, than that nightly resolution to put an end to his misery, even though it had been just a dream. Going at Cuddy's, to tell her what, exactly? That was the absurd, alcohol-induced resolution of a tired man that was now disturbed by a dream. A _dream_. What an idiot.

He found himself looking through the glass, in the patient's room.

– Hello. You have radiation poisoning. –

– Hello. You don't believe that. –

– Right. What did you tell my team? –

– I told them what they were asking for. –

House checked the patient up. The weird burn was quickly worsening, hair had fallen off and remained on the pillow. The man seemed so tired. All of it would fit with radiations. Still.

– How long have you been experiencing asthenia? –

– Oh, I don't really know. I never got used to the damn jet lag. Even the slightest time-shift gives me trouble. –

– You've been a pilot for what, ten years? And you've always experienced jet lag issues? –

– Yeah, I guess. I... – The patient grabbed his chest in pain.

– New symptom! – House popped up an unbelievable amount of tiny white pills. Not exactly the same amount of Vicodin the doctor had prescribed years before. – Chest pain. Ready? Go. –

Foreman thought that only a new case could make his boss less cranky than usual. Seemed like he was happy to have sick people to treat. He was partially right.

– An ultrasound could detect irritated pleural tissue. – Thirteen stood by the door, ready to leave.

– Radiation poisoning doesn't cause sierositis. We must find out what _radiations_ could cause. –

– Come on, Kutner. What are the chances of him having two independent diseases, or radiations causing this inflamation? That doesn't fit. He has something that is not caused by radiations whose source we didn't even find. –

Kutner mourned the death of his beautiful, fitting, perfect theory.

– And. Ultrasound is. – House left the office.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

– Wilson. Hair loss, asthenia, artritis, light sensitivity, nervous organic syndrome, pleural inflamation. –

– Good morning to you too. –

– He's a pilot, suffers from constant jet lag-like symptoms. –

– Could be cancer. –

– You always say that. –

– Only the pleural inflamation doesn't fit. Are you guys sure of that? – Wilson hadn't detected any irony in his friend's words about cancer. He was truly convinced it was cancer. Every time.

– Thirteen is doing an ultrasound, but chest aching like that fits. Wilson. –

– _What_? –

– I have to tell you something. –

– You can't come tonight? It's ok, I... I don't really mind you skipping poker night. –

– No, it's... Oh, leave it. I have to go. – As soon as he reached the doorstep, House felt it again: the rain on his face, the slick road surface, streetlights reflections on the wet ground. He grabbed the door handle, chilling.

– House! Are you ok? –

– Yeah. I need a coffee. Haven't slept well. – House seemed to leave his friend wondering. Then he turned back. – Something's wrong, Wilson. –


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

– Ok, slow down. You dreamed of Cuddy. Finally. You should pay more respect to your subconscious. –

– I didn't exactly... I didn't see her. I was on my bike. And my patient may have Lupus... –

– And this has _clearly_ something to do with your dream. –

– It was a nightmare. But that doesn't matter. Thing is, I'm having trouble since I woke up this morning. I feel like fainting, I've even... I'm losing it. –

– Given the _minimum_ amount of Vicodin you're taking, I guess there's _no_ risk of side effects. Go home, take a nap, don't overdose. Cuddy's waiting for you to discuss the conference. –

–Yep. –

– Ok then. Bye, House.–

– Bye, Wilson. –

– It's Lupus. –

– It's _never_ Lupus, House. – Foreman knew that. It had even become an inside joke.

– Go home, get some rest. We'll page you if there's any problem with the patient. –  
Thirteen came back from the exam room.

– The ultrasound showed inflamation in the pleural tissue. House was right. –

– See? He has Lupus. – House reached out the bookshelf.  
– We're not sure. There's no kidney involvement. Urine's clean. It's too early for a biopsy. – Taub looked down at the results.  
– VES and Pcr can tell us if we're right. – Thirteen was ready to confirm the diagnosis, while Foreman was still convinced that Lupus simply wouldn't show up in a patient of House's. Ever.  
– Elevated VES may lead us in the right direction: he's already got an iron deficiency, we saw that this morning. And this fits with Lupus as well. –  
– Yes, along with at least 200 other diseases. –  
– Foreman, shut up. I want VES and Pcr in no time. Hurry. –

The team left House alone in his office. He laid down his head on the beloved Eames lounge chair and instantly fell asleep: Dizzie Gillespie's trumpet brought him on the other side of the day.

Cuddy came in the exact moment House closed his eyes, and she felt like she was watching an exhausted homeless asleep in the coldest night of the year. A small piece of paper slowly fell from his right hand, clenched in a fist and now relaxing, while his arm gently relapsing nearly touched the carpeted floor. She had this crazy idea of the two of them asleep together and almost thought of sitting there and laying her head down on his chest. But she didn't. She covered his shoulders with the leather jacket and took the piece of paper that had fallen off his hand.

There were notes about the diagnosis of Systemic Lupus Erythematosus, alongside with examples of several differentials and an accurate list of symptoms, from the most common to the rarest. At the bottom left side of the sheet, there was a note: "_Cuddy's Annual Congress thing. Don't be late, wear the blue tie_".

She thought that nothing bad would have happened if they'd had a chat about the congress in her living room, maybe the night after, when the case would probably be already closed. She left him a note: "_Thank you. If you want to come over tomorrow, we'll define the details_".

Then she gently closed the glass door behind him, feeling guilty for assuming that her Head of Diagnostics was not interested in a stupid lecture.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

The pouring rain.

That unmistakable smell of burned out motor oil.

Pain. _The_ pain in his leg.

Silence all around, the sense of unfinished business, unsaid words.

He knew he was in his nightmare: but why would it keep haunting him?

– House! Wake up. VES is elevated, it may actually _be_ Lupus. – Kutner woke him suddenly up, slamming the door open.

Foreman came in right after. – That's not enough. Plus, slightly altered PCR is no sure sign of any inflammation whatsoever. We're back at the startpoint. –  
Then, Thirteen appeared out of nowhere, holding what seemed to be other lab results. – I ran an extra test: serum protein electrophoresis showed slightly increased levels of gamma globulins, which fits with an inflammation. Albumin's not conclusive for kidney involvement, though... –

It was nine in the morning and it was raining outside. He'd been sleeping for ten hours at least.

– You spent an _entire_ night in the lab. Instead of sleeping. Kudos to you, it's Lupus. And I actually slept, because I _knew_ this _before_. –  
– It's not even sure yet. –  
– Have you checked his urines? –  
– Yes. When he came in from ER, yesterday morning. –  
That was the exact, same moment each one of them realized that nobody had checked the patient's catheter since the previous afternoon, when they'd taken him back from the little escape.

– Kidneys don't start failing few hours after an impeccable urine sample. – Foreman couldn't believe it, and that was all.  
– The man's been outside in the sun, right at midday. And sun exposure... –

Thirteen met Kutner's gaze. – ...could trigger a chain reaction of Lupus symptoms. –  
– Thanks. Now, you can go check the catheter and if there's no urine in the bag we can biopsy his kidneys, instead of wasting time on unnecessary, non conclusive tests. – House watched the team as they rushed back to the patient's room.

The bag was empty and the sunburn-like rash now covered his whole, hectic body.

– It's Lupus. –  
– Ladies and gentlemen, this is doctor House: more effective than a thousand microscopes, he can diagnose an elusive case of Lupus watching a biopsy from a three meters elevated gallery. –  
– I'm blushing. You _idiot_. – House and Wilson stood in the gallery, looking down at Chase sticking an enormous needle in the patient's back. – It's Lupus and I knew it. –  
– Doctor House, medical maverick, diagnostics genius and revelation of the year, showed to the world his secret, softer side, taking the chance of a professional meeting with the love of his life, mysterious doctor Cuddy, to turn it into a passionate night of... –  
– Are we _done_? I don't have any time to waste with her. People die. –  
– Are you going? –  
– Yes. _Tonight_. –  
– House... –

– What now? –  
– Be nice to her. –  
– What are you worried about? We have to discuss the damn, useless lecture. It's not theatre rehearsals or something. –  
– Absolutely. –  
In the OR, underneath the gallery, Taub called Chase at the microscope. He nodded at House.

It was Lupus.  
Then House grabbed his friend's forearm leaning forward to the windowpane. His cane hit the ground in a sharp sound.

– Don't move. –  
– I'm not moving. It's you. MRI's an easy task, Wilson. –  
– If you can't stay still, I won't see what _else_ is wrong with your head. –  
– That was nice. But nothing's wrong, I just need to make up for sleep and everything will be ok. –  
– _You_ came to me yesterday, _you_ said something was wrong and _you_ had a ten hours night sleep. You didn't even get back home, you slept here. –  
– Wilson, let me go. Come on. It's really nothing. –  
Wilson put an end to it. Seemed like all was really ok. – Maybe it's your guilty conscience: you know you have to talk to Cuddy after what happened when she lost the baby. You even know you want it, but you're so insecure, so proud of your reputation, that... –  
– The rash. Irritated skin tissue was so peculiar... –  
– ...you deny that to yourself. You need someone to be with... –  
– And the jet lag effects were actually manifestations of generalized asthenia, which was... –  
– Be clear with her, tonight. –  
– ...the only symptom for ten whole years, until few days ago. –  
– Yes, your patient actually has Lupus. Seems like we've exorcized this demon. Now, will you please listen to me? –  
– No. Bye, Jimmy. – And House left him there, wondering.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Case closed.

Lupus.

He took the hard leather covered book from the shelf and brought it home with him. That book had been haunting him for years and now it was time to let go.  
It was still raining.  
He fell down to the couch, so exhausted that he couldn't even change clothes.  
Sleep came in a few minutes, the medical manual laid on the floor, finally resting, as its owner.  
TV gave off light blue, mute glaring dazzles, while the fire was quietly burning in the fireplace. The foggy, silent rainy night covered up Princeton like a sheet. People came back home, turned the lights on and closed their front doors, leaving the day's businesses and concerns outside their warm houses, in the freezing dark.

Loud, scared echoing voices. Slamming doors. Alarmed people. Footsteps squirting mud from puddles.

Splashing _him_.  
Dirt water. Fog and... How cold was it? All around him just the dark and some weird, intermitting light beams that seemed to come out of nowhere. He was feeling completely wet and freezing, it was raining on his broken visor, he could only see raindrops fading one into the other on the damaged glass, in a terrifying kaleidoscope.  
He woke up after dinner time.  
He should have been at Cuddy's by that time. He took off, again, in the night.

He was riding down the main avenue, leaving city lights behind. In his eyes they emerged from the dark background like brushwork of an Impressionist: "Traffic Lights on Foggy City, Monet 1870"; he smiled at himself.

And then again, the hallucination.

He was cutting his way through a never ending curtain of fog and rain. He was thinking of her. The sharp feel of the guitar strings on his fingers was still so real that his skin was burning. The chords he had been playing until few minutes earlier still echoed in his ears, although he had left them in the cold, empty apartment, keeping company to his miserable loneliness.  
He heard a booming sound at his left hand side and there it was: an horizontal light beam revealed a million microscopic raindrops suspended in midair. The Land Rover followed right after. He saw the twin lights enlarging as the fast car was approaching him in the dark. It wouldn't stop. Should he brake?

Or should he accelerate in spite of everything, hoping to make it through the crossroads before the car could reach it?

The smell of scorched tires filled the air.

Then, it was all dark and silent again.

He hardly held the bike, his hands were still clenched on the handlebars.

But the car had just disappeared in the fog and –after all– applying the brakes had been a good resolution. He was still alive, although totally upset and, moreover, covered in mud and dirt.

It was a nightmare. Had been. The first time.

Now, it was a hallucination.

He started the engine again.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

– Hi. –  
– Hi. –

– Come in. –  
– Yeah. –  
Cuddy took his jacket and closed the door behind them.

She started talking to him, and it seemed like she was in some kind of rush whose source he couldn't identify. – Let's go, it's all set. We have to check the attendees' list and put your lecture first, so the discussion can follow. I heard your patient has Lupus, Wilson told me you guys thought of radiation poisoning causing his sickness and the hair loss and... House, are you all right? – She abruptly quit talking and stared at him in visible concern.

– Are you... ok? – She asked him again.  
– Absolutely. –  
– Wilson told me... –  
– Ignore Wilson. –  
He slowly reached out his hand and touched her forearm with the tips of his fingers.  
– House. What are you... –  
He drew her close and held her tight to his chest without a word, his eyes pointing straight at something invisible, suspended in the air, somewhere far above her head. They stood like that, amidst the room, for endless seconds that then turned into minutes. She quietly flavored his peculiar smell: rain, shower gel, some sort of disinfectant from the hospital. He fully dipped into her soft, dark curled hair, gently stroking her head, and he himself got surprised at the unexpected sweetness that his gesture unveiled. From the outside, the noise of thunder shaking the windowpanes came as if it was far away from the scene playing inside.

––––––––––

Few hours later, he was looking down at her, asleep as a fantasy creature in a neo-classic portrait, arms relapsed to follow the sinuous lines of her naked body, dark curls framing her quiet expression as a vintage, old style black and white picture you keep in your purse for years. Sheets had been dropped down on the floor and there they laid, quietly abandoned. He tried to get up and leave silently, but he couldn't manage to come undone without waking her up. So he stayed, her head still pressed on his chest, legs tied one another. He was thinking.

Then he finally fell asleep, overcome by that same feeling that he had been trying so hard to erase from his exhausted soul.

–––––––––– 

Buildings and street lights. Trees. The road slipping fast underneath his tires. The bike ride. The rain pouring on his helmet.  
_Again_.

What was the meaning of that inexplicable vision?

He was riding so fast that he thought he could overtake the rain.  
Why was he haunted by that nightmare, each and every time he dared to close his eyes and let himself have a try at resting? The usual sense of unfinished business grabbed his neck from the inside. It was as he was still riding to Cuddy's. What was that rush? He was already there, that was what he had done to silence his conscience. To stop that nightmare.  
He was near, he could already see the crossroads. He noticed the same lights as before. But this time he was ready, he knew what to do. No surprises.

He pushed on the gas.  
–––––––––––

– House. _House_. Open your eyes. Please. –

She was crying. 


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Rain and tears streaming down his cheeks.

Where did his helmet go?

It was all so dark.

And freezing.

And wet.

He suddenly felt some kind of coarse surface underneath the back of his head: it hurt and it was cold as hell. He was aware of his right hand, he perceived it was dipped in icy water, but somehow couldn't move it from there. Where was his bike?

He tried to look around, but as soon as he turned his head, an excruciating pain seized him through his spine and finally ended up somewhere in the top of his neck, causing him to hold his breath for a moment.

– _Help_. – The word came out in a painful whisper no one could hear.

He let it go and then it was dark again.

––––––––––––

Cuddy was in the living room.

There was a rumble and a crashing noise, then all went silent again.

She was all alone, like every night: the fireplace, a cup of tea and a good book were her peaceful companions; sometimes she would take paperwork home and fill it while listening some good music, sipping a glass of ruby-red wine: from time to time, she would lay the pen and look at the burning fire through the glass; then all her world would become red-blood, the shape of things getting fuzzy and dreamlike. She would get lost in that vision, until she realized that something was missing: toys on the carpet, tiny voices asking what was for dinner. Every night, she would cross that same path and then get aware that reality was different. There were no such thing as kids in her life.

Nor love.

Then, she'd heard the rumble and the crashing noise.

The deep silence that had followed didn't convince her, so she took a slicker and went out in the night, to see what happened.

–––––––––

Blueish, intermitting glares.

People screaming.

Echoing voices, doors slammed open, quick footsteps.

His amplified perception altering every smell, sound and image coming in from the outside.

He was almost sure someone was delicately touching his cheek. That was familiar.

–––––––––

She dressed up and in a minute she was outside in the thunder.

She couldn't see a thing, it was raining so hard the trees in her street were shaking. The storm made their branches fall off and fly all over the place, hitting windows and cars parked in the lawns.

There was a weird smell of burned tires hovering all around.

Then, something got in her way. She tripped and almost fell over it.

It was a wooden cane.

Nearby, a flip-up helmet spilled rain down on the pavement.

People started to pour in the street: alarmed voices fading into the sound of thunder and the noise of the shaken trees, which had been the only witnesses to the scene.

Someone called the paramedics.

–––––––––

– Wilson. –  
– Hey there, Lisa. I'm scrubbing in with Chase, it's an emergency. I'll get back to you. –

– Wilson, you need to come here. _Now_. –

He got there as soon as he could.  
He couldn't believe what he was looking at. People gathering on the street, the intermitting lights of an ambulance.

Two people on the ground, amidst the street: one lying on his back, the other, down to her knees, holding his wrist and gently rubbing his head, drawing the rain away from his face and eyes.

Which were closed.

She was silently crying, checking his pulse, and had him covered up with her raincoat. Tears fell from her eyes to the ground, mixing up with the rain and the blood.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

Well done. He was dead.

And for the sake of it, Hell _was_ cold as hell.

Still, he was feeling like... burning. From the inside. What an unbearable pain, for being dead.

He just needed a nice, tiny white Vicodin pill: too bad he didn't have any, down there. _Crap_.

Here it was: the big rest of a sinner.

So.

His vision was no more an encrypted nightmare: his Lupus case being just the work of his delusional self was a real shame, though.

It was all a hallucination. The Land Rover hit him the first time. He had woken up, sweating for a bad dream, as if he was in real life. But real life _was_ his bad dream. Everything else had been dreamwork. Brainwork. _Whatever_.

He was now dead.

Out of it.

No more.

No deal with Cuddy, no lecture. No patient lost in the park with Chase.

That reminded him of a book. There was this guy called Turing, in the 50's. He was... a mathematician or something. He recalled having stumbled upon an article of his, once.

"_The system of the 'universe as a whole' is such that quite small errors in the initial conditions can have an overwhelming effect at a later time. The displacement of a single electron by a billionth of a centimetre at one moment might make the difference between a man being killed by an avalanche a year later, or escaping"_.

That was it: he had been hit by that realization, as a young student, in the late 70's. He was a first year in Med school: another math geek named Lorenz was about to give a lecture to the Physics graduates of that year. Big thing, people gathering from everywhere in the States. He'd been growing his beard to look older, faked an invitation letter and several recommendations. He'd somehow managed to slip in. The guy had greeted them with words that had stuck with him forever: "_Predictability: Does the flap of a butterfly's wings in Brazil set off a tornado in Texas?_".

Totally.

He was now convinced.

One could die on a wet road, pushing on the gas to make it through the crossroads before a giant Land Rover.

Or.

One could acrobatically hold on to a flying bike, brakes burning the road surface in a screech of tires, and find himself covered in mud on Cuddy's doorstep, placing a hand on her arm and make love to her. Be happy, maybe. Who knew?

_Being happy_.

The mere fact that he had been living the only three hours of happiness in his whole life because of a trauma-induced hallucination really said something about him.

He half-smiled to his dead self, reminded of the butterfly-like rash that Lupus depicted on his patient's face. _The butterfly effect_.

His brain had been speaking to him all day, giving him signs.

He had to credit his brief serenity to the alteration of a portion of time. The second before he reached the crossroads, his life had parted.

The man who had pulled the brakes had taken his resolutions to the final point of a determinant change in his life.

The man who had pushed on the gas had died on that slick road, in a thunderstorm, with his unfinished business pounding over him.

But why?

Why torturing a dead man with the delusions of unreal actions that brought in unreal consequences? Who had tortured him, _the_ dead man, with the vision of that day that never existed?

There was no god. No afterlife, no nothing. Nothing good, nothing bad.

Moreover, nothing that could be so sadistic to torment him with the representation of his loved one asleep beside him, just to make him realize it was all fake, shortly after.

That was irrational, him thinking of a purposely given hallucination.

There was no reason to expect anything more than chemical chain reactions: his deteriorating dead brain tissue had been playing tricks on him all the time.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

No more rain. The sky had joined the earth in a deadly silence. All around it was quiet: people standing still on their doorsteps and lawns, staring at the scene taking place in the street. The ambulance sent off intermitting red-blue dazzles, but the paramedics had turned the sirens off just before reaching the accident site.

Cuddy was looking at the whole scene as if through a windowpane, as if what had just happened were far away from where she stood. She could still feel the shape of his cheekbones underneath her wet fingertips: she'd been guarding him for endless minutes, waiting for the ambulance to come take him, without being able to even hold him close to her, making him feel her heart beating for the two of them, reassuring him that all was going to be ok. He couldn't hear, she couldn't move him. She knew the slightest movement could cause a displacement, or an internal bleeding, if there weren't any already.

Her desperate strokes had touched an unconscious body, whose soul just seemed not being there. His absent expression depicted straight lines on his pale forehead and she could perceive breath painfully exhaling from his slightly parted lips.

The ambulance lights hypnotized her, thoughts going around in circles inside her mind, flying all over, like the tree branches in the thunderstorm that had just left a quiet, rain-smelling atmosphere.

She let the paramedics do their job: all the rescue equipment seemed to her as if it was trapping his free spirit. They positioned him on the spinal board, placing a cervical collar around his neck, straps securing his body to the board and tape around his forehead, to prevent accidental turning.

– Lisa. Come here. – Wilson sweetly took her hand, leading the way to the ambulance. She abruptly pulled her hand away and didn't move.  
– We have to go to the hospital. Lisa. _Look at me_. –

– Wilson... –  
– It's gonna be ok. We owe that to him –  
– This is _not_ happening. –  
– Lisa, you have to come with me. They're ready. –  
– I... I don't know what to do! – She opened her arms, pushing out words in a confused whisper.  
– We have to take him away from here, he's already intubated. Come on. –

She let go off her pain in a desperate cry that broke the deadly silence.

Then, she was ready.

It was time to take decisions.

–––––––––––

– Doctor Wilson, doctor Cuddy, we're ready. –  
Shortly after, they were seated in the back of the ambulance flying through Princeton.

– Heartbeat is 130 –  
– B.P.'s 100 systolic. –  
– Wilson, he's barely holding up! –  
– He's unstable. Call ER, tell them to get ready to x-ray his pelvis and chest. –  
– O2 sat is 91, he's hypoxic. _Damn_ _it_. – Cuddy was trying really hard to hold herself together, faithfully relying on the beeping monitors to keep the focus. – House... – She called.  
– House, it's me. Wake up. – Wilson placed his hand on the man's forehead, which was cold as stone.  
House tried. Really tried. He managed to look through the fuzzy veil that covered his eyes. Everything was confused the way his thoughts were. There was a brief moment, during which Cuddy and Wilson noticed the painful resignation floating on the surface of his ocean-blue irides.  
– House, it's me. Can you talk? –  
It was Jimmy. Why did he look he so scared? And who was with him? He couldn't get to move a single part of his body, _crap_. Death was definitely weird.  
"Hey there Wilson, I'm here. I'm dead, you know. It's not like I thought: things happen here. We might even arrange a poker night."

– He's non-responsive. –  
"_What?_ W-i-l-s-o-n! Do you copy?"  
– House... House, it's me. Cuddy. It's going to be all right, you're going to be all right. –  
Here she was. He hadn't seen her until she had leaned down to him.  
"Hello, Sunshine. I'm afraid I might not make up for clinic hours. Send the bill to Chase, he'll sell his boat or something".

– No feedback. He's gone again. –  
"Are you guys _crazy_? Yesterday I was dead and we could still talk."  
– Pain stimulation. –  
"What the _freaking_ hell are you..."  
– No reactions. –  
They got to the ER. The first rays of daylight suddenly made their way through the back doors of the ambulance.  
– Don't be afraid. –  
Her voice. She seemed to be terrified. _So convincing_.  
– Stay with us. Look at me. _Stay with us_. – Wilson staring right through his eyes as they were rushing in was quite creepy. "Stop it, you idiot. I'm dead".

He let himself slip away again.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

–––––––––––

_Note: thank you all for the feedback. I had to slow down the chapters rate, but I promise they'll keep coming. I just don't have too much time for translating right now, but I want you to know how this story ends. Enjoy!_

They rushed in. Wilson noticed Cameron approaching them and stopped her the moment before she could see who the patient was. He knew he had to tell her what to do before she could see House and lose the focus.

– Hey. We need help here. Get ready to x-ray his abdomen and pelvis. – He tried to cover the stretcher while they were wheeling House into the ER – Also, we need a CT scan to have a clearer look at C1-C2 to C7-T1 regions. – He met Cuddy's gaze: she was covering him up.  
– I thought you were scrubbing in with Chase... –

As they reached the reception area, the paramedics abruptly blocked the wheels and Wilson found himself few steps forwards. Cameron managed to finally see the patient. He was immobilized on the spinal board, unconscious.

Cuddy seemed to have her self-control back, but she was squeezing Wilson's right arm.

The nurses took House away.

Cameron stared at Cuddy and Wilson in utter disbelief.

– Motorbike crash, there weren't any other vehicles on the premises. He's barely responsive to external stimuli and completely non-responsive to pain stimuli. We suspect a spinal cord injury. –  
– I'm paging the team. – Cameron went for her pager, abandoned somewhere in the medication room, to hide the tears that had started to stream their way down her cheeks.

– Are you ok? –  
– Yeah, sure. Whatever. –  
– Right, then. Because you know he could have a SCI, don't you? –

Cuddy remained silent.  
– Lisa. Look at me, for God's sake. – Wilson approached her desk. She was obsessively staring at a movie-like sun rising outside her window. She knew what a SCI was. Hence that, she also knew that if she'd looked Wilson in the eye, she would probably burst out in tears. So, she chose to fix her gaze outside.

– We have to wait for the scans. –  
– No. We have to hope the lesion is not too high up the spine. –  
– Heart rate's not shortened, there's no sign of bradycardia or other SCI effects either. –  
– Lisa, listen to me, please. – He placed his hand on her shoulder. She didn't turn back. – This is not a medical mystery. House had a terrible accident, he was thrown off the bike and hit the back of his neck against the pavement, across the street. That's what happened. – He was being harsh on her and that wasn't him. But it was the only way to make her realize what had really happened. – There is no mystery here, Lisa. You have to keep focused. He's gonna need the two of us. –  
– _This is not happening_. –  
– I'm afraid it is. –  
– What if we're wrong? –  
She was stubborn as hell.

– C5 is fractured and compressing the spinal cord. – Taub spoke quietly, trying to hide the concern. – He's in spinal shock. –  
Wilson collapsed on the nearest chair, hands on his head. Then stared up at Taub and spoke as slowly as he could, trying not to get lost in his own words. – Call Chase for the surgery, we need him ready to clear the spinal cord. I want Foreman as well. Prep the patient, I'll be there in a moment. –  
Taub dashed out of the room.

Cuddy turned back as the door slammed loudly. Palms on her dark, wooden desk, she desperately gazed at Wilson. In her eyes, a pristine expression of the utmost terror. 


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

The hot cappuccino burned her lips. She realized she was actually squeezing the plastic cup in her icy-cold hands. She tried to focus her mind on the complex pattern of the tiled floor. Each department had its own color: in the waiting room, just outside the OR's, it was plain white. She blamed herself for that choice she made years before sitting there, waiting for someone to tell her House was going to be all right. If she had known, she'd have chosen something more relaxing than a nonsense white.

She let her thoughts stray. Past, future. Then back again. _Present_.

What had brought House outside in a rainy night? And why was he hanging around her neighborhood? She realized she wasn't even sure she wanted to know House's reasons to be there, in the middle of a stormy night. What if he was there without any ulterior motives, just to see her, tell her... _no_. She pushed that thought away in pain, choosing not to even finish _thinking_ about it.

An SCI was a life sentence.

Bone fragments from a fractured vertebra deforming the spinal cord, cutting away each way of communication from the nerves to the other parts of his body. She tried to mentally escape the images that had started flowing through her mind: the motorbike, House's body thrown off it in an acrobatic fall, hitting the rough, wet surface of the road. The clash of iron and steel, the smell of burned tires. The back of his neck turned in an unnatural position, her being unable to move him. The utter fear in his blue eyes, the silent call for help, the painful breathing exhaling from his lips. There wasn't any blood, and still she was horrified by the scene she had witnessed. She was a doctor, she shouldn't have been. But she also knew that blood wasn't the worst part of an accident. The worst part were the silent victims that couldn't even cry for help, lying unconscious or in shock, waiting for someone, something to come, either death or salvation.

Everybody was so sure he had a spinal cord injury. She should have been the one telling him, with Wilson. Who else could?

_That was not happening._

– Hey. How you holdin' up? – That was Cameron, speaking to her from behind, hands on her shoulders. She slowly came closer and sat beside her. – He'll need you guys. He'll need _you_. _–  
Those damn words, for the life of them.  
_Wilson had been repeating them non-stop since they'd come to the hospital, and now there was Cameron stating the obvious, as well. She thought he'd never accept _need_ as a part of his school of thought. _This time, though, he won't be able to get by on his own._

The OR doors cracked open and Chase came out, covered in blood. Cuddy stood up, staring fixedly at the surgeon, eyes wide open, incapable of any other movement. He approached her and crossed his arms on his chest, trying not to draw too much of her attention on the blood covering his scrubs.

– Spinal clearing went well. We have been able to remove every bone fragment from the cervical spine, so they're not compressing the cord anymore. We placed a screw plate in the damaged articular massif, so it's holding itself together on its own. – Cuddy started to breathe again. Then looked at Chase's expression and her stomach dropped down to her feet. – He has an unstable C5 lesion: at the moment he's affected by a complete... – Chase hesitated for a second, then gave a quick look at Cameron. – ...a complete paralysis of the four limbs. In a month time we should see if the lesion is complete. If so, in addition to the arms and legs being paralyzed, the abdominal and chest muscles will also be affected, resulting in weakened breathing and the inability to properly cough and clear the chest. –  
Chase quit talking. He met Cuddy's exhausted stare. – Cuddy, we don't know, ok? The lesion could possibly be incomplete, we just don't know _yet_. You know that yourself, I'm not leading you to believe anything until we see how he does. –

He walked away.

As soon as he found himself out of sight, he leaned back against the wall and let himself slip down to the cold ground. He had pulled each and every fragment away from the damaged spinal cord. They were so tiny and seemed so harmless, in comparison to the damage done. He had tried to recompose the whole thing as hard as he could. For a brief instant, he had even thought that the damage might not be permanent, but he couldn't really say anything. Hope was against all odds, and hope doesn't help diagnosing a patient, as House had taught him. Chase tied his head back against the wall: he was sad and sorry, but above all he was angry at House for being so screwed up to feel the need of a ride in a thunderstorm, to go God knew where to see God knew whom. If God was being of any use, that was the time to show that.

Down on his knees on the floor of a hospital, scrubs covered in his own boss' blood, Chase whispered a prayer.


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

_Oh, yes. That was so cool. Death was definitely getting better. And better. No more pain. House was eventually ready to fade out in millions of atoms, listening to his own swansong: it had been a fine chemical frenzy that was finally going to end. He recalled his fall from grace happening so many years before that moment: he couldn't even remember how it was to be pain-free. He thought the whole picture of his goodbye to the world could even be more perfect with some good background music. He tried really hard to convey his mental energies to that. _

_No, wait._

_What was that?_

_Was it Wilson? He laid sprawled across some unidentified couch. He was asleep. Very. He was squeezing the right sleeve of his old leather jacket while probably watching over some lucky patient of his. House indignantly pushed the scene away. He didn't want to see Jimmy: that was not what he had asked. He'd wished to have some good music. Maybe if he could focus very hard on his piano..._

_Woah._

_That was nicely weird. Pianos and prostitutes, as Cameron would say about his free time. That particular one wasn't even remotely naked, though. Crap. She was fully immersed in some kind of white, blinding light coming in from god knew where, and he could only see her from behind. She was looking outside a window. _

The pristine sunlight flickered for a brief moment on the horizon, then it began to expand above the skyline, illuminating everything from above. Princeton came to life as the morning broke for another day. Cuddy squinted, then she turned back to the room.

_It was her._

_His brain was so screwed. That was nowhere amusing. House painfully realized the utter cruelty of that undesired vision: he didn't want to see her knowing it would be the very last time. He was getting emotional and that was sappy. Couldn't he just go, leaving that damn warmth behind before dissolving forever? Not to mention the light. One couldn't even rest in peace, after all. What a shame. He'd just wished for some good music to leave the world to, and what he had gotten was Jimmy curled up in a ball on a hospital couch, along with Cuddy not even close to be in her oh-so precious birthday suit. Dying was a huge fail._

_Unless..._

_Wait._

_That was real light. Rays of sunshine. Warm, brand new sunrise. For real._

House tried to focus, letting his gaze wander through the room, eventually managing to overcome the dryness in his mouth.

"Hey."

Wilson suddenly woke up and jumped to his feet, tossing the jacket onto the floor. Cuddy rushed to him.

"House!"

She grabbed his hand, pressing it against her chest.

_Now that was definitely cool. Cooler that white lights and tunnels. Dipping a hand into Cuddy's boobs was like the best awakening ever._

House took a deep breath, ready to flavor the moment.

He didn't feel anything.

All of a sudden, he became aware of where he was. He remembered it all now: the bike, the thunderstorm, the crash and the pain. His back hitting the wet, harsh ground. He swallowed, incapable of anything else that staring at the two people standing at his bedside.

Wilson approached him and bended over.

"House, it's me. Can you..."

He looked _slightly_ terrified. House fixed his gaze into Wilson's and blinked. He _could_ talk. _Dude, who did the man think he was?_

"How long have you been here? You stink."

Wilson looked at Cuddy in utter relief. House being an ass was something warmly familiar.

Chase rushed in.

_Another one with circles under his eyes. God, that was starting to get creepy. And scary. He was staring at him. Cuddy and Wilson were staring at him._

Everybody was silent and House seemed to perceive an undefinable tension. Cuddy slowly sat on his bed, still holding his hand.

"You had an accident last night. The helmet wasn't properly fastened and you just lost it while you were being thrown off the motorbike. You hit the back of your neck against the curb. House..."  
She fell silent, waiting for any reactions from him, incapable to finish the sentence. Then Wilson folded his arms, trying to concentrate on the mere sound of his own words.

"You suffered a C5 spinal cord injury. Chase cleared the spine and he was able to remove every fragment of the fractured vertebra, but the damage causing the paralysis in your limbs is probably permanent."

Cuddy stood up, leaving House's hand to inertly fall back on the sheets, and turned back to the window, trying to hide the tears that she couldn't hold back anymore. House watched his dead arm unwillingly relapsing. That was why he couldn't feel pain anymore: he couldn't feel _a thing_.

He closed his eyes again, trying to protect the people he loved from seeing his panic.


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

House felt his consciousness slowly detaching from the people around him. His perceptions began to dissipate and merge with the chemical chaos of his brain.

_He was back at Cuddy's place, standing still in the corridor. He could hear the rain hitting hard against the windowpanes. House flavored that moment, almost wishing his life could finally reach its end right there in Cuddy's warm-nuanced house. He didn't want to hurt her, but he was well aware it was just a matter of time before he could say or do something wrong that would poison it all. Cuddy was the sun shining over his desolated lands: she would get tired in no time of illuminating an empty place. He'd been an idiot to even hope she would accept such a burden as he was. He stared up at her in a desperate cry for help, then turned to leave: as soon as he tried to walk away, though, she grabbed his hand and held it tight, her gaze fixed into his as she was trying to hold him back, to prevent him from wasting the only chance at life he'd had the courage to take in years. House eventually let himself fade into her embrace. They fell to the floor. He felt his own, unexpected tears silently streaming down his face, and right after that her fingers delicately wiping them away. He nestled his head into the shape of her chest and they remained still for never ending minutes, as she was keeping him safe in her bosom, trying to suck the misery from his disenchanted soul. Then, she started to undress him._

He opened up his eyes. Oh, _crap_.

Cuddy was there. She was staring at him in utter disbelief.

"House..."

He tried to deflect.

"I'm sorry, I'm a boring patient. I needed my beauty sleep, you know."

"House... I think you just had a hallucination."

_Great_. So now she knew.

* * *

Wilson sat at Cuddy's table, bringing her some lunch from the cafeteria.

"That was just a hallucination."

"He was coming for me."

"Are you trying to extract bits of reality from the delusions of a traumatized patient?"

"So what was he doing? Hanging around in a thunderstorm, in my neighborhood _and_ in the middle of the night?"

"I don't... know."

Foreman came in.

"How's he doing?"

Wilson stared up at him.

"Same jackass he was before."

"Physically?"

"We're currently monitoring the spinal shock, which seems to be in its descending phase. BP's stable and he's breathing on his own."

Foreman sat down beside Cuddy and looked at her slowly sipping her juice. She seemed so lost.

"How are you?"

She realized he was addressing her and came back from her daydream.

"I'm fine. Cameron's been giving me a hand with paperwork, since I'm on House's case."

Foreman lowered his voice, trying to sound firm.

"Lisa, there's no case here. Maybe you should just have some rest..."

Wilson placed his hand upon Cuddy's.

"Foreman is right. Go home, have a good night sleep. I'll stay with House."

He stood up and pat Cuddy's shoulder, then he went back to his office, hoping she would take the advice. Foreman laid his own cup down on the table.

"I'll see you tomorrow. Page me if you need."

He turned. Cuddy watched him walking away. She _had_ to tell someone.

"Foreman, wait."

He looked back at her.

"What is it?"

"I think House is hallucinating."

* * *

Crap. How could he be such an idiot? Hallucinations are personal, it's delicate stuff to deal with. _Personally_. Most of all if they involve some serious love-making to the woman sitting at your bedside in real life. Did she realize what it was all about? What did she hear while he was out? House wished he could control those trips of his from that moment on, also hoping to find a way to keep her outside his room. _Personal stuff is personal. Hence the name_.

He kept pretending to be asleep. Wilson was out there. He could smell his fruity eau de cologne, the one that seemed to be part of his gray Mc. Gill sweater, the one Amber used to wear at home when they were living together. That thing hadn't been around for ages. And now, here it was: Wilson's tragedy outfit. The poor thing was a wreck.  
House heard him breathe heavily, then the chair creaked as he sat down. He was surely watching over him. House was about to tell him he was just trying to avoid Cuddy by pretending he needed to sleep his way into recovery: he almost felt like opening up with his friend, telling him the true content of his hallucinations and his reasons to be in his boss' neighborhood in the middle of a stormy night. He even thought of telling him he was scared the hell out about the whole wheelchair bound thing, that he was desperate to hear it had been just a nightmare, that no one would never really have to feed him, clean him, wheel him wherever he had to go, even to the damn toilet. Then he heard Wilson releasing a soft moan and blowing his nose. He decided it was too much for the man and just kept pretending he was still sleeping.

* * *

Cuddy and Foreman were in House's office. She was leaning on the sill, watching the skyline of Princeton fading out into the horizon. Foreman sat at House's desk, considering what she had just told him.

"Hallucinations."

"Yes. I was with him."

Cuddy turned back at Foreman and took the file from the table, reading through it for the hundredth time.

"I don't think it's related to the crash."

"It definitely could be, though. He suffered a severe head trauma, hallucinations could be a consequence."

"What else _does_ actually fit?"

"There's nothing worth investigating here, except the entity of the trauma: I'm scheduling a new MRI."

"Are you saying he shouldn't be hallucinating?"

"I'm saying I'm gonna need to look into his brain once more, before letting you believe that there is something wrong with it."

Foreman dashed out, in search for the team to take House to the MRI.

Cuddy was now alone in the office of her Head of Diagnostics. She saw the red ball. She saw the Lupus textbook in the bookshelf. She saw the Sota turntable, the one that had cost House four entire weeks of clinic shifts, many years before. Cuddy felt as if centuries had been flowing from that moment to the present. Stacy had just left him and he was so lost her heart would just melt every time she saw him limping his way to his new office. He was slowly recovering from the surgery, but couldn't almost walk. He was in pain, but he would insist not to get help from anyone, not even using a wheelchair for the first months of physical rehab. There had been days he would just lay on the floor, headphones on, listening to his vinyls while reading through case files that he would not take.

"House. I'm not paying my genius diagnostician to lay on the carpeted floor of my hospital all day long."

"I'm out of cases."

"You have six files on your desk. Choose one."

"Top of the pile: autoimmune disease. Test him, he'll be home by the weekend. Second one: paraneoplastic syndrome: dump him at Wilson's door in a basket. Third one: healthy young woman with no medical insurance. I met her at the clinic yesterday and I've already scheduled a full battery of tests, so she can keep her job. Fourth one: syfilis. She thinks she's smart telling me she doesn't want to be tested. The last two are just a couple of desperate junkies. They came in together, tons of bruises on their forearms and no one is coming to see them. Send them upstairs: Voldemort the rehab guy would be pleased by my little present."

Cuddy felt defeated. She tried to put on an expression of disapproval, but she just managed to raise a smile. House seized the opportunity.

"Are you gonna show me the dramatic view of your oh-so sexy ass while turning back from me, pretending that you're still right?"

"Of course not. Get your ass out of here and into the clinic. Either this, or the Sota thing goes away."

"This is blackmail."

"Yes, it is. Still no cases for a month, clinic duty every morning and the turntable stays."

"Oh, come on..."  
"Get up."

He had glanced at her in denial. But she had seen him struggling to get on his feet. Still feeling responsible for making Stacy sign the consent for that middle-ground, devastating surgery, Cuddy had walked out of the room. House had followed her to the clinic and the "Sota thing" was still there after nine years.

Cuddy put on some blues piano and let her thoughts go. She was still feeling his words as he was hallucinating. He was calling her. He was telling her _things_. He had cried silently. In that hallucination, he had been with her, she was sure of that. Before the accident, he was coming to see her. He _loved_ her. Cuddy couldn't take the bouncing red ball back. It just rolled on the floor, stopped by the wall. She hit against the window with her fist clenched, then propped her forehead against it. Shivering at the touch of the cold glass on her skin, Cuddy cried for a long time.


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15

House lied awake, staring blankly at the ceiling. Cuddy was resting beside him, naked, one arm around his chest, sustaining her head with her free hand. He started kissing the silky skin on her pale forearm. Slowly, she bended over him and whispered softly to his ear.

"We still have to put together the outline for your lecture."

He looked up at her.

"You can make even _work_ sound like sex."

He placed a chaste kiss on her lips. She raised a smile.

"What are you going to say?"

"That the Dean makes love like an evil cunning cheerleader."

"Don't be an idiot."

House was running the tip of his tongue on her neck, delicately.

"You taste like sunshine."

She looked down at him at placed a hand on his cheek, caressing his pepper scruff.

"I was talking about the lecture."

"Me too."

"Seriously, House. What are you gonna say?"

"My patient has Lupus. I'll entertain them with the drama ensuing after we discovered it was not jet lag."

They fell silent for some time. The Cuddy looked down at him.

"House."

"Yeah."

"Are we crazy?"

He looked up at her and curved his lips in a smile.

"It was fun. We should do it again."

"Shut up. I love you."

* * *

It had just happened. _Again_.

Wilson was standing beside him, eyes wide open, staring down at him, totally upset.

"House, are you ok?"

"Sure. 'Never been better. And I don't need Vicodin anymore."

Wilson was slowly, inexorably blushing. He looked down at his feet.

"It's... Well. You've just had sex. With Cuddy."

"One can't even get nightmares anymore."

"It was a hallucination."

"It was a _dream_. A bad one."

"It was a hallucination. We put you on EEG while you were asleep: Foreman thinks your head trauma might be worse than what it seemed."

Great. At least she wasn't there, this time.

"Wilson."

"Yes?"

"Keep your mouth shut about this. Will you?"

Wilson didn't answer. He slowly walked out, wearily shaking his head.

House watched him disappearing down the corridor. One does not hallucinate from a spinal trauma, it was impossible. It could be the ematoma in his head: after all, he had hit it hard enough to suffer a severe shock. Despite all that, House wasn't convinced that head trauma was the key to his symptom. He had hit the curb as bad as he could have, but it was his neck that had suffered the real trauma. In comparison to the mess his spinal cord was, what he had in his head was just a booboo: there was minor swelling, nowhere as bad as to make him see things. He thought it could be a consequence of the psychic shock from the whole accident. He'd been seriously injured and traumatized, but that just seemed like coming out of his need to find an answer. Those visions had to be related to something else. But what? He could not recollect any distinct memories of the events prior to the accident. The whole day was a black hole to him, until he had found himself riding his motorbike in the thunderstorm and startling awake in his bed right after, sweating his life out in the aftermath of an accident he'd taken as a bad dream for the whole day that had followed. Except that "the whole day that had followed" had been the chemical frenzy of his brain. The first one, occurring right after the crash. What was he doing before taking off on his motorbike? Was he home? Was he in his office? He recalled the pristine sensation of _need_. Need to see her, right there, that exact moment. He had taken off to go see her without even knowing what for, but he couldn't remember anything else. Most of all, he couldn't say a word about what had happened before that.


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16

_Poor baby. _

Cuddy was watching over an asleep House through the glass of his ICU room. He was lying perfectly still, as though all the life flowing through his veins had just spilled out, forever lost. His eyes were closed, hiding the blue sky inside, arms resting on the blankets with palms slightly opened, as Chase had set them during surgery, working on the tendons in a hopeful attempt to make House's hands of some use. He had lost all of his fine motor skills, as a result of the neurological damage: that trick could help him regain some primitive gestures like grabbing at things, if he had worked hard on eye-hand coordination. All the rest was gone forever.

Drips were coming in and out from his bruised forearms: Cuddy watched House's biceps involuntarily pulsating under his skin and got an unexpected sting in her chest as she imagined them shrinking inexorably in a year's time, incapable of communicating with the center of their movement. He was breathing on his own, but she could see the struggle of his chest muscles making room for the lungs to expand as the air was going in. She could hear the EEG monitors beeping regularly in synch with the vital parameters. That concert was creeping her out, as though the machinery were giving voice to the silent tragedy of that body, which was already so beat-up from ten years of chronic pain, now abandoned forever by the spark of motion.

She was stricken by a vision: one year later, she would still be there, nurturing the hospital as the child she couldn't take care of. Would he be there, though? That was a painful question to ask: his future was so uncertain now. Yes, he would live. That was what mattered, wasn't it? For the first time ever, Cuddy didn't feel so sure about that. She couldn't let him slip away, go back home without promising her that one Monday he would again cross the threshold of his office. The team would be at his side, he could do his job as he had always done: mocking patients, insulting colleagues, fighting with her and maybe saving a dozen lives a year. Wilson would be with him no matter what, and she would help him taking his life back from the distance, without invading his delicate world of feelings and perceptions. She would never mention the hallucination she had witnessed while watching over him, nor the night of the accident and all related. She couldn't let herself have the luxury of an irrational wish: his life had already been destroyed and was going to get more complicated than ever. She knew he would pretend to be fine with what had happened to him, but she couldn't allow him to shut himself away in his living room, hiding from real life forever after, staring at a piano he couldn't place his hands upon anymore.

He was still sleeping.

Cuddy thought it couldn't be any bad if she'd crossed the threshold to come a little closer. She silently cracked the door open and sneaked in, pulling the shades to help House sleep quietly. She sat down beside him and ran her fingers through his head and then on his face, as delicately as she had done the night of the accident. Then she closed her eyes and kissed his forehead, flavoring the smell of his skin, slowly descending until she found his lips. Bending over him, she swore from that moment on she would be his guardian angel.


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter 17

"I'm hallucinating. Again."

"Yes, you are. I thought you had already figured this out."

"So why are you haunting me?"

"To show you what you will lose."

"I've already lost it."

"You don't know yet."

They were still naked, in Cuddy's bed. She was resting her head on his chest, snuggled up to him, hair loose onto the pillow. House picked a twisted, bright dark wisp and ran it through his lips. The fire in the living room was slowly dying out and the rain had eventually quit hitting the house. They lied in the dark. House looked down at Cuddy.

"In real life, you'd never want me."

"In real life, you'd never have the guts to ask me."

He pulled away his biceps from underneath her head and got loose from the embrace, staring at her in denial, leaning on his forearm.

"Are you kidding me? I've been waiting for this since, like...ever."

"Exactly: waiting. What did you do to earn it? You would just sit on your chair, play with your ball, carry your burden. Never a nice word to me. You sabotaged my dates. You tried to screw with my IVF attempts. You crossed the line at work. Many times. My ass, my boobs, the little games, the laser pointer, the nurses talking about the non-existing fling we secretly _weren't_ having."

He couldn't reply to that. But trying to talk back was just part of his argumentative self.

"You never understood my true motives."

"If they were so clear already, why did you come over here tonight?"

"That's what I'm asking to you, who seem to know a lot about me."

House tried to make his words sound half cynical, half ironical. Cuddy, though, looked very serious: the smile on her face had just vanished. In fact, she was creeping the hell out of him. She came closer and closer, they were now face to face and he could feel both heat and tension sparkling between them along with their breaths fading one into the other.

"You have to remember."

"I can't."

She took his hand into hers and held it tight.

"Cuddy, you're hurting me."

"You _have_ to remember."

He couldn't sustain her look anymore. He turned his face from her and closed his eyes.

"I wanted to see you. _Damn it_. Let's hope there's no one hearing that in my room..."

"You needed me."

"Yes."

"It wasn't the first time, was it?"

"No..."

"Then why did you come _tonight_?"

"I don't know!"

"Think, House."

"I... I was home. Alone. It was raining. I... was playing my guitar and my leg hurt. As always."

"As always?"

"Yes... _No_. It was killing me."

"And?"

"I popped some Vicodin."

"That's hard to imagine..."

"Are you... mocking me?"

"Well, I have to assume you found the guts to come over out of the booze."

"That's not... Cuddy. Please. That's not true."

"Then what was it?"

"I was thinking of you. I was going over what happened when you lost Joy. I pictured you alone in your empty house and I thought... nothing."

"What? What did you think, House?"

She was now whispering to his ear, her voice so low it could even be air murmuring.

"Try to remember."

He tried.

"I thought to come see you, see if you were ok. Be with you."

Ok. Now he had told her. He closed his eyes, waiting for her inevitable comment on that revelation, but she didn't reply. Everything was slowly vanishing, the bedroom fading out and her face merging with the background.

House awoke. It was all dark, the shades had been pulled. Wilson's armchair was empty, he could see his jacket tossed on its right armrest.

Cuddy was there. _Oh, boy._

She was asleep, nestled in her own armchair, which she had pulled up close to his bed. She was leaning forward to him, her left hand around his chest, the other one on his left forearm. Her shoulders were still involuntarily shaking as though she had to force herself to quit crying, or fell asleep while doing so. House could still feel her tears moisten his left hand, where her cheek was resting. He soaked up the wet warmth of her skin as if it were her own pain in liquid form. In all that mess, he didn't care about his own life: he was already broken. What was really making his heart wrench in sorrow was the sadness depicted on the face of the woman he had always loved. He pulled his hand away from underneath her cheek and placed it on the back of her head, gently rubbing it until he fell asleep.

Few minutes later, Wilson came in and stared at the scene in utter disbelief: he realized what had just happened and had to hold back the tears, smiling to them in silent relief.


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter 18

Cuddy plopped down on the black leather sofa and took a deep breath, tiding her head back. She sat there in silence for some time, as Wilson was reading through some papers. In her mind there was her recent awakening in House's room, suddenly followed by the realization he had somehow managed to lift his arm and touch her head with his hand. When she had left, he was still asleep. She looked at Wilson.

"Thank god."

He put his pen down on the desk and quietly nodded.

"Chase was right. The swelling in his spinal cord is actually shrinking: he might get some fine motor skills back. At least he won't have to stare at his damn piano all day long on a drip of scotch."

"I don't get your sarcasm. He is the jerky, devastated patient. You should be the supportive friend."

"I am _not_... well, yes. I'm being an ass here. _On purpose_."

She looked up at him, slightly confused.

"Why are you...?"

"Because..."

Wilson got to his feet and started wandering across the room, hands on his waist, looking down at the gray carpeted floor.

"...Because he's not being honest."

"Are you saying he's lying to us?"

"I say he's omitting something. And we can't diagnose a lying patient."

Cuddy didn't reply. She kept thinking of what House could need to hide from them _so badly _to even risk of affecting their course of treatment. Wilson sat down beside her and went on, more and more upset.

"We told him he's practically become a quadriplegic. He'll never walk, eat, blow his nose or even _wipe his own ass_ by himself again. All he did after that was being the same jackass he's always been. How come he's not having the slightest reaction to the fact that he's lost use of his whole body? This does not make sense to me."

"You know him. He holds everything inside. And you might want to lower your voice. Everybody is dying to know about House and I'm pretty sure there's a nurse overhearing this chitchat of ours outside your door."

Wilson jumped to his feet.

"I don't care. This time he could try and have the _decency_ of opening up with us. I'm doing this for him, _damn it_."

He slammed House's file on his desk. Now he was actually yelling. Cuddy got up, staring at him in disbelief. Wilson turned back to her.

"I don't give a crap if he's moving his hands again. I don't give a freaking _crap _if he's just gonna be the genius doctor in a wheelchair, a lame paraplegic, good looking maverick playing the piano in his dusty living room. I won't give a crap about _anything_ unless he decides to tell us the truth. He's lying to his doctors, as everybody does. So much for his school of thought."

"We can't force him to open up."

"We are losing him, Cuddy. If he doesn't open up with us, _we are losing him_."

"I know."

Cuddy tidied her hair up with a rubber band and adjusted the vest on her shoulders, trying to hide the fact that she'd been practically living in the hospital for days, with the change of clothes she'd been keeping in her locker for years, waiting for an emergency that had never come, until that moment. She couldn't figure out what Wilson was referring to, saying that House was keeping something from them. Maybe it was related to his hallucinations. Nobody had believed her days before, when she had told them they didn't fit with the SCI. Now, though, the symptom had become more and more intrusive, and Wilson probably had his own idea about why. There _was_ a case. She was right. She released her breath and leaned back to the wall of the office, hands behind her back. Wilson approached her and held her to his chest.

"Cuddy, it's ok. We are gonna figure this out."

* * *

"So. Where were we?"

Cuddy was still bending over him, kissing him and whispering to his ear as if they were making some weird kind of psychological love. Making him _think_ with the mere sound of her words, which he knew were coming from his own mind.

"I don't want to waste my hallucinations _talking_ to you. Let's do it again."

"No. You have to understand."

"What?"

"What made you come over."

"I've already told you."

"I know. But that's not all."

"It _is_! I wanted to see you, there's nothing else."

"Something gave you the courage you never had."

"You're boring the hell out of me. I prefer when you..."  
"Shut up, House. _Look_."

The scenery abruptly changed. They were now in House's own apartment, standing on their feet, wrapped up in the same blanket from Cuddy's bedroom. It was raining, the storm was shaking the house. It should have been around 6 p.m. House looked at Cuddy in surprise.

"It freaking cold in here."

"It's because we're naked. Now please _don't_ talk, ok?"

"Okie-dokie."

She raised a smile. They walked across the corridor, still covered only by the cottoned blanket. They could hear music coming from the living room. When they came in, House saw himself playing his 1967 Gibson, seated on the sofa, with a concentrated expression on his face and an empty liquor glass on the coffee table amidst the room, right in front of the couch. Nearby, a bottle of Vicodin laid flip-up: there were no more pills in it.

He looked at Cuddy.

"What a sophisticated vision. I can see myself. I'm _that_ good."

"Did you underestimate me?"

"Of course not, since you're _my_ creation."

"Good, then."

The "other" House quit playing. He laid the guitar down to the floor, his expression distorted by some incredible yet undefinable pain, squeezing his right thigh with one hand, while the other was trying to reach at the empty amber bottle of pills. They saw the pain was making him shiver, tears streaming down his face. He tossed the bottle against the wall, panting heavily.

"Oh, my god."

"Do you see it now?"

"I didn't... remember."

They saw House approaching the bookshelf, pulling a ladder up to it. He painfully climbed the first steps and started throwing books down to the floor. Then he came down, holding a metallic box.

House stared at the scene. A whisper came out of his mouth.

"_Don't do this_."

Cuddy put a hand on his cheek and slowly stroked him, her words coming out in a soft murmur.

"You can't change things. You can't change who you are."

* * *

Wilson's pager started beeping uncontrollably in his backpocket. So did Cuddy's. They rushed out of the office, slamming the door closed, headed to House's ICU room.

Cuddy came in first, shortly followed by Wilson.

"House!

The EKG monitor filled with irregular curves. House slightly lifted his head from the pillow, as much as he could do not to feel his back burning like hell. He saw her colors fading as she was looking at the parameters. That had to be bad. His voice came out in a moan.

"Cuddy..."

Wilson dashed out, in search for an emergency kit, as Cuddy reached House's bed and started the CPR.

"House, don't... You _stay_ with me, ok? Everything's gonna be fine."

"The hallucinations... I... was..."

Cuddy pushed as hard as she could on House's chest. She glanced at the doorway, but nobody was coming. Where the hell was Wilson? She left House's chest for a moment and reached for the alarm, then went back to CPR. House was panting like he'd never done before, trying to speak. He was running out of air but he just _had_ to tell her what he had done. She looked terrified. She yelled to an empty corridor.

"Wilson, damn it! He's going into cardiac arrest!"

Cuddy ran to the door, but she quickly had to come back. Time was flying by, House was about to pass out. She started CPR again, whilst turning to the glass: she looked through it to see if someone was coming, then turned back to House. Doorway, House. Glass, House. He grabbed her wrist and forced her to quit pushing. He managed to hold out a whisper.

"Cuddy."

"What? _What_, House? What is it?"

She found out her voice was way too high and looked way too frightened. Too late. House painfully went on, his voice almost covered up by the noises of the machinery.

"The hallucinations. It wasn't the trauma..."

_Damn it. He had to make it fast..._

Cuddy couldn't believe he was still acting like he was on a differential.

"House, shut up. You'll be fine. You'll be..."

He closed his eyes.

"House! _Stay-with-me_!"

She pushed harder and harder at every word.

"I'm sorry..."

His voice died out.

Wilson came in with a nurse pushing a crash cart. That exact, same moment, the curves on the EKG monitor turned into a flat line, shrieking.

* * *

A/N: cliffhangery chapter. I know. Sorry. :) I'd like to thank you all guys loyally reviewing every chapter of this story, alongside the other silent readers whom I hope not to disappoint. What makes me smile is that you are all telling me my writing is good, not only the plot or idea. Thanks a lot! I was hoping my attempt at translating would turn into a matter of style. I'm glad the experiment is working: the feedback I'm getting is exceeding my expectations.

About the story itself: House had received a life sentence. A C5 SCI is quite a high-level injury, so it was natural how Chase assumed his four limbs were lost, along with all the other functions controlled by the nerves down below the injury level. Although, the injury was incomplete, so they actually had to wait and see what was remaining: when a SCI presents as incomplete, it means that not all the spinal cord has been pushed out of place by the bone fragments from the damaged vertebrae. In that case, all control would have been lost below the injury level. When some cord is still in place, though, there's still room for the communications to pass from the brain to their "highway" (which would be the spine), despite it being restricted by the damage, which is still irreparable. This is House's case: that is why he managed to lift his hand in chapter 17 to touch Cuddy's head. But as you saw, there's still something wrong with him: he's having those inexplicable hallucinations and now his heart just stopped. He's seen something in his last vision, and now he knows the answer. But he's out, and neither Cuddy nor Wilson know anything, because he couldn't manage to tell them before passing out. Next chapter(s) in the next day(s). As always, I devote most of my free time to translating, because I really love the job. So don't worry, I won't leave you without updates for more than a reasonable amount of time. Sorry for these long notes :)

alessandra


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter 19

Wilson froze right where he was. He couldn't get to take a step through the doorway. That was not happening. _Not like this. Not this time_.

"Wilson, for god's sake!"

Cuddy snatched the paddles out of his hands and pounced on an unconscious House, untying his hospital gown to expose his chest, desperately trying to hold back the uncontrollable terror which was invading her whole self. She applied some gel onto the metal plates.

"Charge."

The charging pressure released a shrieking hiss.

"Clear!"

The line kept running flat across the monitor.

"Charge..."

Another hiss.

"Clear!"

The _damn_ sinus rhythm.

"Charge."

Wilson stood still in the doorway, his eyes aimlessly wandering across the room, jumping from Cuddy to House, then to the nearby nurse and the beeping machinery. He felt as though his veins were slowly filling in some icy cold solution, blocking frozen his will to think or act.

"Clear!"

Nothing happened.

"Damn it, House!"

Cuddy pulled the paddles away and resumed the CPR. Those sixty seconds seemed endless to her. She was pushing harder and harder on House's ribs: all of her energies were conveyed in her folded hands pressing on his chest. She wouldn't let him go anywhere. Not again. That was how people are constantly pulled from the brink of death: pressing on their chest as if you wanted to crumble their rib cage. You blow twice into the mouth, pressing the nose closed with your fingers. Then you push on the chest. Thirty times, with your hands crossed one over the other on the breastbone, you have to press with all of your strength. And pray at every push you shove that your patient comes out of it. Cuddy could flavor the fear on her own lips as she pressed them on House's: even though she tried to hold it back, it kept invading her mouth like a poison every time she paused blowing air into his mouth.

"What's happening here?"

Chase rushed in and his question remained unanswered, as the others stood outside, watching through the glass. Thirteen approached Wilson and saw him shivering. He hadn't even noticed them coming. Foreman came closer and grabbed his forearm, forcing him to turn back.

"_What's happening_?"

Wilson's words sounded blankly meaningless even to him.

"He was in v-fib, went into arrest. He's not responding to the shocks."

Inside the room, Cuddy quit the CPR and took the paddles from the nurse handling them to her. She charged and the people around House's bed stepped aside.

"Clear!"

They were running out of time. Every minute the patient spent in cardiac arrest meant a 10 percent decrease in a successful resuscitation. She could see fuzzy visions of her med school textbooks floating in mid air, somewhere between House and herself: the pages magically enlarging, revealing printed black text and numbered figures and tabs containing datas and explanations related to the manoeuvres she was performing on the man lying unconscious in front of her. Adrenaline flew through her body as she had her whole mind cleared from any thought. Her perceptions had been set apart, leaving her free to focus on her gestures and nothing else.

Cuddy saw the green of a university campus in Michigan: she was studying, flat on her stomach onto the grass, leaning on her elbows. A scruffy, good looking boy had just dropped all of his books on the ground and sat down beside her, taking a beat-up guitar out of a huge black bag with hundredths of stickers on it. She had glanced at him, raising a smile while tossing her own book away.

She charged.

_You can't do this to me._

She cleared.


	20. Chapter 20

Chapter 20

House was walking his way deep into some empty space. He didn't have his limp. All around him there was just the freezing dark which he had felt like progressively drowning into, since he had gone in v-fib. Now he was fully dipped in it: not a sound or the mere sign of a light. This wasn't even remotely similar to the visions people claim to go through in the so called near-death experiences. First, there weren't any white lights. Nor a tunnel, or something like that. He'd always said it was all a mass delusion: too bad humanity had made a fool of themselves since the first smartypants had pulled the idea of "religion" out of his sleeve. What an idiocy. He stopped walking and stood still, listening to the sound of silence all around him.

He couldn't leave them without the answer: they would never get over it.

Or.

_He_ was the one who didn't want to go anywhere. Maybe he was such a miserable coward he didn't even have the guts to let go and finally die. He raised his eyes, staring up at where the sky should have been. He was _missing_ it. Visions came.

There was a boy in a small room with white daub on the walls and lots of books everywhere: neatly propped against the wooden bookshelves, tossed on the carpet half-open or either spread out on the woolen grey blanket thrown over a high wrought iron bed. The boy sat on the floor, leaning back to the cold wall, knees propped up against his chest, arms around them, looking attentively at something outside the window, which only he could see. Tears were falling down his cheeks but he didn't even bother wiping them away. There was a woman standing in the doorway: fair haired, very good looking, she wore a pearly necklace over a red turtle neck cardigan. She seemed both angry and distressed. House stared at the scene playing in the white, bright room. He closed his eyes and the scenery disappeared, echoed voices beginning to emerge from the silence.

_...Your father will never forgive you..._

_...How could this even cross your mind?_

_...You're grounded, Gregory. For the entire summer..._

_...You're such a worthless, ungrateful..._

_...In your room..._

_...And don't even try to apologize... _

House felt chills coming down his spine and opened his eyes: the vision had changed. He was now seeing his father standing in front of him, looking upset and disappointed by something he had done. The man, dressed in a military outfit, shook his head and wearily walked away, headed out into the dark. House realized that was the vision of the summer he had discovered the truth about him not being his real father. His mother had tried to talk some sense into him, but he wouldn't listen. He had been waiting for his father to come back from work and he had exposed his discovery. His mother had just looked at him in disbelief, but she hadn't denied anything: despite that, he was just a 12 years old boy and nobody believed him. Nobody _wanted_ to believe him. His mother couldn't do anything but suffer in silence as she watched her husband punishing him for something he was right about. She sold him for the sake of the family.

House kept walking in the dark.

"Come here, Gregory."

A young teacher was calling him. He was smiling, seemed a nice person. Twenty teenagers turned to the shy boy seated at the rear of the room.

"You might want to share with your classmates the result of your math test: show them how you resolved this equation..." The teacher went on.

The boy stood up and slowly headed to the blackboard. He turned back to the class and started talking, his confidence growing as he was filling the board in numbers and letters. He'd always been good at that. Equations are easier than people.

The classroom dissipated as dreamwork at dawn.

He was now seated in an office full of wooden antiques. In front of him was an old man with lunettes: an overshadowing bookcase was deflecting his attention from the man talking to him.

"Mr. House, the whole board will be pleased to give you recommendations to whatever college fits your choices."

The office progressively faded out.

House was older now, but he was wearing the same Pink Floyd beat-up tee and ripped jeans. Someone was handling him a leather covered Nephrology textbook.

"Mr. House, I guess this is the book you were looking for. Please keep it as long as you need, I'll be in my office for any questions. You are always welcome."

The old professor walked away.

Seconds later, he was in a wide, bright variegated marble hallway with an incredibly large staircase twisting its way up to the second floor, which had a balcony giving people a view of the entire space below. He was staring at the students in white coats leaning against the iron handrail, when someone approached him. It was the man who had given him the book. Only, he was a little older.

"Mr. House, how are you? I've heard you're flying your way to graduation. Actually, I was wondering if you'd like to consider the prestigious internship I was talking about last week. I'd be glad to have you in my team."

There was a lightening.

And then there was a sunny green lying under the bluest of the skies. It had to be summer. House was feeling inexplicably... happy. What was it for? He took a look around and immediately recognized the place. His parents, dressed in formal outfits, were standing in the middle of a crowdy concentration of plastic chairs laid on the grass. They were smiling: half in relief, half in pride, as he seemed to detect from their looks. A group of people in bright black graduation gowns stood in a column in front of an older man calling each one to handle them a rolled piece of parchment paper tied up with a red satin ribbon.

"Today you go from being students in this School to operating for the well-being and health of the people who will come to you. We know you will employ what the School taught you in order to make life and health your first priorities. Doctor Jane Avery. Doctor Fred Bailes. Doctor James Blanche. Doctor Katryna Celinova..."

The graduates walked up and down the stands, smiling at their friends and parents.

"...Doctor Simon Perks. Doctor Leah Stone. Doctor Ava Zuckerman."

After the last young woman took her paper and went back to her seat in the first row, the Dean asked the public to stand up and called one name. Behind him, a group of teachers also in black gowns started clapping their hands.

"_Doctor Gregory House."_

A younger House headed to the stand and held out his hand to take the parchment from the Dean. He was genuinely smiling, but he looked slightly overwhelmed by all the noise surrounding his own graduation. He shook hands with the Dean.

"The Johns Hopkins School of Medicine is proud to confer this degree to its most honorable child, alongside an invitation by the Michigan University Hospital to participate in its seven years prestigious residency. Congratulations, son."

And then it was another place again.

A group of young doctors in white coats were being spoken by an older doctor looking totally amused by the anxiety showing on their faces.

"Welcome to your residency at U-M: this is the first of the two thousands, five hundreds and fifty-five days you're gonna spend in here. You don't get to sleep, complain, make mistakes. You get to eat your lunch in the fifteen minutes you cut away from your work day. You get to go to the bathroom only if you're about to crap your pants in the O.R. You don't get to fail at anything. I guess we're clear. Let's go."

House raised a smile. He had unwillingly removed that memory from his mind for years. In fact, he recalled being the only one to be amused by that psycho superviser. He had taught them a lot, but unfortunately those other wimps were too terrorized by his manner to actually pay attention.

And during one of those Saturday afternoons when he managed to skip his hospital shift and go earn some money in the bookshop, he had met an undergrad. A _girl_ undergrad. She had handled him her syllabus, hoping he had the textbooks she needed for her classes. He had mocked her for having an overcrowded timetable, which could only mean she had a chip on her shoulder. She had glanced at him with a witty smile as she was tossing her money on the counter and then she had left, unaware of the fact that he had just made the life changing decision to win her heart. A twenty-years quest had begun that day in the Michigan University bookshop.

So, the movie of his life had come to the day he met Cuddy. She was unmistakable: he could have detected the brightness of her laugh in the noisiest crowd, the freshness of her perfume in every good thing there was in nature. She was a flower, a beautiful, happy sunflower illuminating his days. They had been close friends: he had supervised her first internship in the department where he was a resident. He had been beta-reading her degree thesis in Endocrinology, making her startle every time he would lift his eyes up from the draft to tell her she had made the slightest inaccuracy. She was esteemed for her top marks, admired for her genuine beauty, loved for her kindness toward both patients and colleagues.

He saw the two of them lying on the grass, staring at a blue summer sky.

He saw them dancing at a party to the sound of a world '80's hit.

He saw them passionately kissing, then plopping down on the couch and making love as if it was their last day on earth. He could still feel the satin consistence of her skin, the smell of her dark curly hair.

Then House had been expelled, just one year before he could take his final board certification. He had to start again from year one, or either complete his residency somewhere else; he took off the morning after they had their first time. He was now gone. Cuddy graduated and completed her residency as well, without him being there. She was good, one of the best: brains and beauty. She had become the second youngest Dean of Medicine in the United States, first woman. Ever. They had never talked about that night anymore.

Then it was dark again.

"_You can't do this to me_!"

Wait.

Who was it? That voice was not from his visions. It was coming from _beyond_. Gazing into the distance, House located the center of a flickering bright pinpoint. It was small and yet so intense. A sudden lightening stroke him.

House's body jolted on the bed. The EKG line had a peak, then sank to the bottom again.

Cuddy charged: it was her last shot, 360 joules.

"Damn it! House... _Please_..."

Wilson eventually decided it was time to put an end to it. Stung by a painful twinge somewhere in his chest, he took a step and crossed the doorway, choking the tears.

"Cuddy. It's... over."

"It's _not_."

"Call it, Lisa."

"_I said no_. Step back or I _swear_ I'll electrocute you."

She was holding the charged paddles up above House's chest, ready to shock him again: the flat line running across the monitor kept shrieking. Wilson came closer and glanced at the clock hanging on the wall, up above the headboard.

"Time of death..."  
"_Clear_!"

Cuddy released the pressure. Wilson stepped back in surprise. House's chest had a jolt. Cuddy was squeezing the paddles, staring at the monitor eyes wide open, as if she was praying for it to give her a sign.

Then, the flat line lifted into a peak. Cuddy looked at Wilson. Another peak came. And another one after that. She tossed the paddles on the blankets and headed to the window. She leaned towards, grabbing the sill.

"Sinus rhythm restored."


	21. Chapter 21

Chapter 21

"Sinus rhythm restored. Heartbeat's up to 60."

Cuddy turned to House's bed. She came back to reality as she saw the abandoned paddles laying on the blankets she had abruptly pulled away from House's body before starting him on CPR. Warm blood began to flow again inside her, making her finally conscious of the powerful emotions she had to force out of her mind while she was claiming House back to life, back to her. Her cold hands started to warm up, colors rushing back on her previously pale cheeks, which she now felt like burning. Incapable of any words, she placed her right hand on House's chest, right where the paddles had been, caressing that rebellious heart of his beating again underneath the veil of the skin. _He was back._

Wilson came closer and put an arm around her waist, pulling her close to his chest, where he held her tight for endless minutes, as the two of them watched over House's rest. Their silent tears melted together, tracing shiny, watery lines then left to dry on their faces, crossing as the paths of two siblings gathering to be as one when life's worst claims its rights upon them.

The hospital chapel was immersed in complete stillness, except for someone praying in the back pew, a-squat, hands joined touching his forehead. The man was still in scrubs, a surgical mask laid thrown aside on the nearby seat. Cameron came in and immediately recognized Chase praying. She sat beside him, taking his mask in her hands, fiddling with its rubber bands as she was waiting for him to lift his head up. When his whispers eventually faded into silence, she came closer, her lips almost stroking his ear.

"He's back."

Chase turned to her and raised a gentle smile, as she nestled her head in the crook of his neck, closing her eyes while he was rocking her with his arms around her shoulders, gaze fixed into the wooden crucifix hanging from the ceiling up above the high altar, capturing the colored glares coming from the stained glass windows. He had sneaked out of House's room when the first set of shocks had taken no effect. There was nothing he could do to help Cuddy but stare at her, so he had thought he could be of some use somewhere else. He was being attracted by some invisible force blessing him with the certainty that he didn't belong to that ICU room: his place was somewhere else, where none of his colleagues, nor House himself would never think to seek (and find) refuge. Chase had felt an irrational, ancestral urge to pray with no ulterior motive than the prayer itself. He knew one doesn't make deals with God, his faith had gone too far and touched too deep a bottom to emerge again as immature as it was before. He had entered the Chapel and there he had fallen on his knees, hitting the stone floor as he tried to hear the unfathomable voice of a God he was desperately wishing to come touch his soul.

Foreman came in and walked down the aisle, watching his hands immersed in the reflexes the colored glasses projected everywhere through the air. He didn't feel any concrete or metaphorical relief: he lifted his eyes up to the ceiling and looked for the crucifix, watching it swing, slightly shaken by the breeze coming in through the open doors. He stood still, incapable of talking to the God of his descent, who had been his as well: his lips didn't part as he couldn't let himself go down the path of faith anymore. Foreman noticed Cameron and Chase seated together in the shade: from where he stood, he could see his friend and colleague pointing his stare on his God, whispering at a man hanging from a wooden cross with a smile denoting the trouble he was going through alongside the deep faith in a Will he couldn't control, which would eventually make sense to him anyway, when he was ready to grasp the meaning of it all.

Doctor Eric Foreman couldn't simply do it: he felt he wasn't used to faith anymore, he wasn't utterly incapable to let someone else do his job on his behalf. He wasn't part of any plan, he was the one choosing his own destiny, messing with life and death everyday with his own hands holding a syringe or a scalpel, sticking a needle into a tormented body to inject salvation by the only mean he could conceive: the chemistry of a concentration of elements interacting with others. He wasn't an atheist, or at least he hadn't chosen where to stand in this matter yet, so he mentally asked for forgiveness for his incapacity of crossing the borders of faith and wearily exited the Chapel, leaving the doors open behind him, without even talking to Chase, who, by the way, hadn't noticed his presence. Thirteen was waiting for him in the corridor, leaning back against the wall, arms crossed holding her folded coat to her chest: she was ready to go. They walked away, headed home.

"Do you really think he'll pull through?"

"I don't know."

Taub and Kutner stood outside House's room, now immersed in the dark from the pulled shades. Taub looked at the file, reading through it for the tenth time.

"He's in a coma. 'Brain's been oxygen deprived, needs to reset..."

"Cuddy..."

"Cuddy didn't give up on him. I know. But if he had come back after the first set of shocks I would be more optimistic now. If he's not... _himself_ anymore when he comes out of it, she might regret what she did for life."

As Taub spoke, Kutner thought of the hundreds of patients laying for years in units like that, eventually abandoned even by the most faithful of friends and relatives when they realize that their loved ones' awakening from the coma has brought back to them no more than a pair of empty eyes aimlessly staring into space all day long. He finished his thought out loud.

"We can't let them go. We're doctors."

"Yes. We're doctors."

With an unconvinced look at his friend, Taub headed to the locker room, hoping House would come back as he'd always been. A manipulative ass, genius son of a bitch. But hey, that was him. Anyway, they had a case to solve now: that was no more just the aftermath of a tragic accident. It was House's case.


	22. Chapter 22

Chapter 22

* * *

"Wilson."

Cuddy cracked the door open and slipped into her friend's office. She was wearing the same clothes as the day before, hair pulled up and not the slightest veil of concealer on her cheeks. She looked very tired and messy. Wilson lifted his eyes up from paperwork: he had tried to convince her that going home, having a good night sleep and a shower would be the best for both of them, as there was nothing they could do for House at the moment. But there had been nothing to be done to send her away, so he'd been the one going home, having a decent cooked dinner and an even more decent night of sleep in his own bed. Now he was feeling refreshed and he was trying to distract himself reading through patient files he had to reassign in order to follow House's case.

"Wilson, we have to talk."

He knew what she wanted to talk about: he had been thinking of that as well. He stood up and followed her to the office next door. House's office. It was the usual morning setting of his friend's sanctuary, except that he wasn't there. Sunlight forcing its way through the half-pulled shades, the conference table full of sheets and charts, an inviting smell coming from the rear of the room, where Thirteen was messing with the coffee machine, as Foreman sat in front of the desktop computer, attentively reading a list of numbers appearing on the screen, Kutner bending over from behind to have a look as well. Taub took a chair for Wilson and pulled it up to the table. He sat down. Cuddy grabbed a marker from a drawer and approached the whiteboard. She felt like violating something sacred. She started writing down the symptoms.

"Persisting vivid hallucinations, v-fib and cardiac arrest. Go."

The team started debating.

"It could be drugs or alcohol."

"It's been days, his body would've already expelled the alcohol."

"Tox screen was clean. I mean, except from the damn Vicodin."

Cuddy began pacing the room, flipping the marker through her fingers.

"It could be Cushing's Syndrome."

Everybody turned to Wilson, the only one who had been silent till that moment. He went on.

"A full-blown, previously misdiagnosed clinical picture of Cushing's could explain the psychosis and the ventricular fibrillation."

Wilson fell silent again. The team resumed the debate.

"He's not showing any swelling in his face and upper body."

"But he could present with bruises and hematomas."

"He's been in an accident: there's bruising everywhere."

"It could partially be from something else."

"Did anyone test his ACTH levels?"

"Nobody bothered. It was a blue code from a motorbike crash."

Cuddy dashed out of the room.

* * *

A/N: pretty short, I know. Primarily, because the next thing that happens needed its own, special chapter, secondarily because I spent the whole afternoon writing down an extra chapter for this story. An epilogue. Very long one. You will see why I thought to do something like that, two years after finishing the story. And you will thank me, I guess :=)

Please guys, keep reviewing. I'm impressed to have so many good comments despite having just started publishing (here) and I can't thank enough IheartHouseCuddy, Tetrafish06, Huddyfantatic1984 and all the others reviewing almost each chapter I post: not that I judge the quality of a story from the number of reviews, but as I spend hours writing for your pleasure you silent readers can waste ten minutes to tell me that you enjoyed reading and why. Or not :P

Spoilers for next chapter... sweet, medical huddy and another intense ddx session. Is it Cushing's or not?


	23. Chapter 23

Chapter 23

* * *

Cuddy stood still for a moment, watching House from the doorway. Then she took the first step inside and everything else was just forgotten. She came closer, trying to erase the ticking and beeping machinery from her mind, to picture him resting as a fairy creature, without the drips and tubes and needles coming in and out his arms, the oxygen mask placed on his nose and mouth. She reached out and uncovered his forearms, running her fingers onto the pale skin, following the muscles pulsating underneath, dreaming of the day those arms would hold her in an embrace with the strength emanating even from that hospital bed. When she found his hands, she gently flipped them up and examined his fingertips, planting a delicate kiss in his palms. Then she laid them on the sheets and started pulling out the blanket to have a look at his legs: she got a painful sting somewhere inside as she saw the large necrotized scar crossing the whole length of his right thigh. Cuddy immediately went back to the day she had let Stacy sign the consent to that risky, middle-ground procedure, which had left him crippled and in pain. She felt the cold metal scalpel in her hands and then the warm sensation of his blood wetting her fingers as she had cut into the dead muscle. Stacy and her had made this to him. They had him doomed for life in an attempt at salvation. Cuddy gently caressed the scar and shifted to the other leg, then she untied his gown and exposed his chest, which she could see struggling to make room for air as House inhaled through the oxygen mask. Cuddy startled as she realized what she was really looking at: House's abdomen was crossed by the hectic streaking she was looking for. It could definitely be Cushing's.

She ran a delicate stroke on House's forehead, then she set the blanket back on him and exited the room, turning to flash him one last glance before heading to the office.

* * *

"He's showing diffused ecchymosis on his abdomen." She announced, busting the door open.

Wilson looked up at her from the conference table as she went on, giving away her orders. The team jumped to their feet.

"You guys go screen him for Cushing's. We're gonna put him on intravenous Dexamethasone, 1mg per hour, for seven hours _non-stop_. Go."

Cuddy realized she was dangerously looking like House directing the differential and couldn't help but smile at herself. In no time she would have started spinning, bouncing and flipping things. She came back to reality as she saw Wilson sign House's chart, lay down his stylographic pen and wearily stand up. He gave her a significant look.

"Are you sure?"

"I'm an endocrinologist. I can recognize Cushing's."

"And. He's been in a terrible accident. His whole body is bruised. What made you think the streaking on his chest were different?"

Cuddy thought she'd had enough. She approached him, making him draw back. Wilson didn't expect that, as he found himself having his back to the wall. Cuddy lowered her voice as she hissed at him.

"We _have_ to figure out what's wrong. When he wakes up, I want to be _there_ and tell him we have the answer and everything's going to be all right for him. I want to hold his hand and reassure him we've done _everything_. I... I owe that to him."

She abruptly turned from Wilson and with the back of her hand she brutally wiped away the upcoming stream of tears. The hundredth upcoming stream of tears. Wilson remained silent: Cushing's had been his idea. He couldn't retreat before they gave a chance to the treatment, but something irrational hidden somewhere inside his head was telling him they were making a gigantic blunder. Cuddy seemed to have the same thought. She turned back at him.

"If he doesn't respond to Dexamethasone... We will have to search for an suprarenal tumor or a pituitary adenoma."

Wilson knew that as well. He just nodded.

* * *

The sun was shyly warming the day up, as if it was trying to slowly fight the breeze of autumn forcing its way through a busy Princeton. House was lying unconscious in his ICU bed. The woman he loved sat by herself on the low retaining wall encircling the hospital rooftop, inhaling the fizzy air that was ruffling her curls while thinking of the incredible turn the lives of all the people around House had been taking since the night of the crash. In the meantime, House's best friend was doing his usual morning visits to his patients, giving them the smiles and reassuring words he couldn't donate to himself. Chase was working hard in the OR, taking inflamed appendixes out, closing open thoracic incisions and waking people from anesthesia with a gentle stroke on their foreheads, while Cameron was busy in the ER, giving away prescriptions and meds with Kutner helping her out with the clinic. Foreman sat in the locker room, reading through the Bible his mother had given him before her death, trying to draw some meaning from it as it was once so easy, as Taub was doing the same in the local Synagogue. During those seven long hours of intravenous Dexamethasone spilling slowly from the IV bag into House's tormented bloodstream, Thirteen had finally dialed her father's number, hoping she would be able to say at least 'hello' to him, after they hadn't been talking since she had graduated from med school and come to Princeton to specialize.

The rest of the world just went through their day ignoring the event that had brought these people together.

* * *

**a/n**: so, I've seen you guys loved that I gave some spoilers away last time, so I guess I can take it as a habit if it keeps you entertained :) Next chapter we'll see if it's Cushing's Syndrome or not as poor woobie Wilson almost loses it. We are approaching the end of the story and the next chapters will be quite short, since I've imagined them as "scenery changes" which just happen in a final rush to save House and what is remaining of his wounded body. But. The long, long epilogue is waiting for you all at the end of it.

As soon as I'm finished with this story, I'm going to post a series of one shots and drabbles and if time and university allow me I want to give a chance to another long story that I never got to finish.

Keep it up with the reviews as they really warm my heart up. :)


	24. Chapter 24

Chapter 24

* * *

"It's not Cushing's."

Cuddy and Wilson startled, turning to the doorway where Thirteen stood, holding House's file. Wilson jumped to his feet and reached her, grabbing the chart from her hands.

"Let me see."

Pacing the room, he read through the whole panel twice, then collapsed on the couch.

"He's not responding to the Dexamethasone. The levels haven't even reached the 200 threshold."

He took a deep, weary breath and went on, his gaze fixed into Cuddy's.

"I guess we have to find the tumor now."

He leaned back, massaging his temples with his fingers, and closed his eyes. Even like that he could picture in his mind the view of House's office he could have gotten from where he was. The place was empty, there was no need to really see that through the glass window. If it wasn't Cushing's Syndrome, Wilson was pretty sure what to look for: a suprarenal tumor, or a pituitary gland adenoma. He had already discussed that with Cuddy: he was finding it sadly ironical that House was sick from something that Cuddy, an endocrinologist, and Wilson, an oncologist, could find and treat. Cuddy and Wilson of all people. He believed he was falling down from an incredible height and his stomach had a jolt. Wilson was used to deal with that kind of news: he did that every day with every kind of people. He also knew that Fate doesn't choose its victims: you get it or you don't. He could still see all the men and women (all the children!) he had greeted with a hug and a smile hoping not to see them again once he had sent them back to their lives, alongside the grateful eyes of those whom he had just taken by the hand to let them leave the world with some dignity left. Just now he realized how different it was, when you have to look for a death sentence inside the body of your best friend. He cracked his eyes open again and saw that Thirteen and Cuddy were still standing there.

"Prep him for the MRI. I'll meet you there."

* * *

With these words he just walked out of the office. As soon as Cuddy got out too, he was already out of her sight.

"I can't believe it." Kutner entered House's room, shortly followed by Thirteen.

"What? That he's gonna die? We don't even know the stage..."

Taub came in.

"He's already gone into cardiac arrest, his abdomen is streaked in purple and he's hallucinating. What stage do you think it is?"

His harsh words hardly managed to hide the trembling in his voice. Kutner approached the bed and started removing all the equipment they couldn't keep during the MRI. He addressed his colleagues with the saddest expression on his face.

"First the accident, now this. Seems like the worst joke ever. Taub, I need your help here."

They started unplugging House's EKG, EEG and vitals monitor.

"He had the accident because he was having hallucinations, he was hallucinating because something's clearly wrong with him and same be told as regards the cardiac arrest."

"Thanks for telling me. I was just being sarcastic."

"I know."

"Well, don't you find it absurd?"

"No, I don't."

Taub cut it short and exited the room, while Thirteen was pondering the "absurd" and "possible" categories as she applied them to her own life, another one which seemed to be ill-fated.

* * *

"Pick up. _Pick up_."

Cuddy dialed Wilson's number again, but he seemed not to be taking her calls.

"Damn it, Wilson."

She slammed the cordless phone onto her desk, grabbed her personal cellphone and threw it into her leather purse as she took her coat from the hat stand. Where did that _idiot_ go?

She found out twenty minutes later: Wilson lied sprawled on the external stairs leading to a green wooden door marked '221/B'. House's apartment in Baker street.

"Oh, James."

She approached him and squeezed his shoulder as he stared up at her, clearly misty-eyed. She sat beside him and wrapped her arm around his waist. They stood there for a moment, seated on the cold stone, while people walked in and out of their sight across the street they were facing.

"Jimmy."

He didn't even answer. She placed a hand on his cheek and made him turn his face to look at her in the eye. Wilson noticed that the sun made her hair look fairly copper-colored. He realized she was the strong one, not him. In the end, he had always knew. House was right, he had always been: he had chosen to be an oncologist because he couldn't accept the fact that death doesn't choose with a reason or upon notice. Hence that, he had forced himself to face it every day in a controlled environment where he could see it taking away people that simply came in and out of his professional life. But then, when death came to take what he really cared for, he always broke down. House was right. House was _always_ right.

Wilson stood up.

"We have to go. I know."

They slowly came down the stairs, knowing that whatever was about to come, they were headed to the truth.

* * *

a/n: next chapter will be very, very short. But Cuddy and Wilson finally find the answer! Not at the hospital, though. Any guesses?


	25. Chapter 25

Chapter 25

* * *

There he was, aimlessly staring into space from House's doorstep. Cuddy thought how lonely Wilson was, how difficult it was going to be for him if they couldn't save House. Everyday he secretly fought against death and its inexplicable choices, trying to resist the same fate that had taken Amber away from him and now was about to take his best friend. By then, someone from the team was probably injecting contrast into House's bloodstream: they were ten minutes away from the hospital and that was the first time she was outside in days. Maybe they could take it slowly before rushing back there. Cuddy walked to the living room window, which faced the street, and had a look inside. Despite that being painful to her, she just felt the urge to look at House's world as it was once, intact and pristine before his life had turned upside down.

There was the dusty upright piano with an empty glass abandoned on its wooden frame: it had been left open, so that Cuddy could see its black and white keys shining in the dark of the room. An overshadowing bookcase leaned back against the opposite wall, but the top shelf was completely empty, its content scattered down on the carpet facing the fireplace. The black old leather sofa had a woolen beat-up blanket thrown over it and House's expensive vintage guitar rested on its left armrest. It was like a dead place. Cuddy's gaze captured the crystal coffee table which laid amidst the room. _The coffee table_.

"Wilson..."

They rang the landlord's bell and few seconds later they stood in the hallway, facing House's apartment door. He had left it open, as if he was expecting someone to come in, sooner or later. Cuddy busted the door open and rushed inside first. She could smell loneliness, wit and a lot of misguided feelings alongside the dust and the fragrance of pinewood. While Cuddy's eyes were getting used to the dark inside the house, she treaded upon something. Wilson reached shortly after, looking puzzled.

"Lisa, what are we doing here? I've been an idiot... We have to go back."

While he was finishing talking, he saw her standing amidst the room, utterly motionless, eyes piercing down at something she had taken from the floor and was now holding in her open palm.

A syringe.

Wilson saw what lied on the coffee table.

"Oh, god."

Cuddy came back to reality and grabbed her cellphone.

"Foreman, it's me. Cancel the test."

* * *

Few minutes later, House's eyes cleared up as he was trying to fix his still fuzzy gaze into his friends' standing at the threshold with an upset, yet partially relieved expression. _They knew_.

* * *

a/n: don't hate me for this being so damn short. Sorry! ^^ I've been vidding all day and this was actually a short chapter. I wanted to upload two actually, but translating takes time and today I am quite tired, so I'd better wait and do a decent job. Be patient guys... And thanks for reading and reviewing, as always. Teeny-wee spoiler: House is (was, actually, as we are now way after those times) such a junkie... He's taken something very bad which was hidden in the bookshelf, inside the box Wilson and Cuddy saw on the coffee table... What is it and what did it do to his body, you will see if you wait for tomorrow's update as the story completely unfolds. :)


	26. Chapter 26

Chapter 26

* * *

Cuddy and Wilson froze at the threshold of House's room. He was awake. He was back and he definitely was _not_ going to die. Then Cuddy came in, slowly walking towards his bed. She felt all of her voice was gone and held out a whisper.

"House..."

She delicately sat down on the edge of the mattress and held his hand in hers for a moment, then bended over him and laid her head onto his chest, utterly overwhelmed, incapable of any other reaction than flavoring the beats of his heart one by one, as silent tears ran down her cheeks, soaking his gown. House raised his stare up to the ceiling, feeling them burning in an attempt to hold back his own emotions, then he just closed his eyes and held her close with his free arm, as clumsily as all the drips, needles and his injury let him. Eventually, he let it out.

"I'm sorry. _I'm so sorry_."

Wilson silently exited the room.

The team stood in the corridor. They were all looking rather puzzled. Wilson closed House's door and took a deep breath, hands on his waist.

"There's no suprarenal disease."

Their inquisitive looks spoke for them. Foreman seemed to realize something, but he didn't interrupt Wilson. Instead, he took the chart from Thirteen's hands and started reading through it as Wilson spoke.

"He injected himself with an overdose of intravenous ketamine. He must have taken it together with alcohol and Vicodin, which actually screened it in the blood panel. It explains everything: he started hallucinating and crashed his motorbike. He just hid the hallucinations from us so we couldn't figure it out until later. Then he went in v-fib and subsequent cardiac arrest."

Thirteen took the blood work out from the file.

"It's been days... How is this even possible?"

Foreman wearily shook his head.

"Alcohol, narcotics and ketamine together can affect the whole system for days. The bruising was just due to the accident."

"And the paralysis..."

But Taub couldn't finish. Chase rushed in, still wearing his surgical mask, which he brutally ripped off while addressing Wilson. _He knew it: House had a thing for abusing shit_...

"What? What did he take?"

"Intravenous ketamine."

Chase stood motionless for few seconds.

"I knew it. An overdose of ketamine with alcohol and narcotics can provoke diffused insensibility and even paralysis. What an _idiot_."

They all turned to House's room and saw him through the glass as he was gently caressing Cuddy's hair with his now completely functioning hand. Chase just went back to his realization.

"He still has a c5 SCI, he's totally wheelchair bound and everything, but the injury is incomplete, so there's room for him to regain some control of his upper body."

That was what he had seen in surgery, what he hadn't dared to tell Cuddy not to make her unnecessarily keep her hopes up. House's spine was somehow healing and the joint effects of all the crap he had taken were fading. The guy was definitely going to live. And that was what mattered most. Chase walked away and the small crowd in the corridor separated. Wilson hardly reached his office before collapsing on the black leather sofa and falling into the longest sleep of his whole life.

* * *

2 MONTHS LATER

* * *

January 19th - House's room

"Hi."

Wilson cracked the door open. House was working on a case, flipping a pen between his fingers: someone had the head of his bed lifted up to make him comfortable in a seated position, a pile of pillows wedged between his back and the bed header to support him. He seemed quite intrigued by what he was reading, but he took his glasses off and laid them on the blankets to greet his friend.

"Hi Wilson. Wanna bet it's sarcoidosis? 100 bucks it is. Chase's already in, we're up against Taub and Foreman."

Wilson raised a smile but didn't answer. Instead, he just checked him up, as he had done everyday since House was slowly coming back to his life. He seemed relaxed. He seemed normal. Wilson couldn't still believe that, but he seemed happier.

"How are you?"

"I've got a case. And three others in the waiting list."

"I know."

He was deflecting. Bad, bad habit. He seemed really fine, though.

"Wanna go out for a walk?"  
House looked up at him. _Oh crap_.

"Oh god, I'm sorry, I'm so very..."

Wilson blushed the life out of him. He was such an incredible, mindless _idiot_. But House couldn't wipe the grin off his face.

"It's a pleasure watching you torture yourself. Let's go."

Wilson pulled the wheelchair up to House's bed and adjusted the brakes, then he grabbed House's jacket from the hat stand and helped him wear it. They called a nurse to help setting him into the wheelchair: Wilson watched as she pulled the straps on his legs to brake them to the limb supports.

Ten minutes later, they were out in the cold winter sun.

House was propelling the wheelchair on his own, his hands running swiftly over the metal handrims, as the breeze ruffled his hair and made his scarf wave. He seemed... relieved. Wilson looked at him and seemed to know what it was for: the pain was gone. House had finally had what he didn't want in the first place. Choosing the surgery over amputation had made him a miserable person dealing with chronic pain and substance abuse just to get by. Losing his ability to walk had made him maybe more dependent, but certainly happier. The tragedy provoked by his own dangerous behavior had set him free forever. Free from pain, free from his addiction. He didn't knew if House was just relatively happier or if he was _literally_ happy: but who can say to be so? Certainly not anyone with a decently deep perception of the meaning of life. He didn't believe people could change, as House reminded him everyday with his sarcasm directed to his naive attitude. Despite that, from time to time Wilson could catch a spark in his friend's ocean-blue piercing globes: it could happen anywhere, anytime, as they were playing poker in House's room on Friday nights or they were having lunch together in the cafeteria. It was pure, pristine, utter _relief_.

House was lost in these same thoughts as he wheeled himself through the hospital park, watching nature rest while waiting to blossom all the way in springtime. Then, he was suddenly struck by the thought of Cuddy. Every night, since the day he had been moved from IC unit to Orthopedics, she had been coming to his room and silently sat at his bedside while he was sleeping (or pretending to). She came in at night and she went out at dawn, without waking him up or telling him anything. It was like days and nights were separated by a secret curtain veiling her actions. He wasn't supposed to know anything about that, but he had noticed her presence and he secretly waited for the time to come in which she would reveal to him she was there. House hadn't forced things to develop further. She needed time and he was not going anywhere. He realized they were back at the hospital's main entrance. Wilson seemed to read his mind.

"What are you going to do with her?"

House remained silent. Then, they saw her through the glass automatic doors. She hadn't noticed their presence outside and was standing motionless, watching into space with her eyes fixed outside, forehead leaning to the glass. She seemed very lonely. House approached the door, which silently shifted to make him pass through. He stared up at Wilson walking at his side.

"I don't know. _Yet_."

Was he happy? Who knew. Who could tell, without deluding himself into thinking life was perfect? It wasn't. At all. Still, there were plenty of good sides: for example, not being in pain. Or mocking Wilson. House was now back inside. When his gaze met Cuddy's, a sudden smile brightened up their souls.

* * *

–The End–

* * *

a/n: awwww. The end. This chapter is told mostly from Wilson's POTV. I think the guy has quite an insight when it comes to read House's convoluted mind, so I just had to unleash his thoughts during the stroll in the park.

The case: House injected himself with a powerful anesthetic that actually works (obviously, I should say) as a painkiller. It numbs up the pain and all. When I was planning this story, I stumbled upon an article about this new habit in drug abusing, which is the use of ketamine, originally a veterinary anesthetic. It was perfect for my case. The team was all focused on the SCI, so they just didn't pay attention to a tox screen which was actually what they had expected, given that they knew about House being an addict. They saw high doses of narcotics and alcohol and this masked the ketamine. But only the ketamine could give so lasting hallucinations and the paralysis in his upper limbs. So they were focused on other diseases until Wilson and Cuddy discovered the actual syringe and metal box where House hides the strongest and most dangerous drugs for his leg pain (see season 2 "Skin Deep" and "Who's your daddy?" if you can't see what I'm talking about). That is the case... Maybe not very creative, but hey... I'm just a cognitive neuroscience gal, nowhere near to be a doctor ('been almost there some years ago, tho!).

For my Italian readers two years ago, the story was wrapped right here. They never got the chance to read what's next. And what's next is 4000 words of huddy. A nice start, a bad, bad argument, then... Then I just shut up and leave you un-spoiled, so you can enjoy it tomorrow. Thanks for staying with me through the unfolding of this story, I hadn't expected such a positive feedback, being all new to the site and all. Great :) keep it up with my next stories!


	27. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

– – – – – – – – – – –

PPTH, Rehab ward, March 20th

It was going to be the warmest upcoming spring in years. The sun was shining over Princeton, only slightly covered by harmless fluffy clouds from time to time. There was a flowery smell in the air, together with that peculiar one from early growing grass, when you can already tell everything's going to blossom all the way around you no matter what happens.

House gave a quick glance through the window of his room and had to screw his eyes, flashed by the sunlight. Oh, well. He had just solved the latest case and the guy was gonna live: it wouldn't be any bad if he'd tried to sneak outside and just enjoy the breeze and sun in the hospital park. Those days he used to hang around in his everyday clothes: there were no reasons for him to stay in that awkward hospital gown he wore when he was still in the ICU or during the first weeks he had spent in Orthopedics after the coma. They had just moved him to the fifth floor, in a real room which didn't even seem to be one of a hospital: yellow wallpaper, wooden furniture and a comfy bed which reminded him of the one he used to sleep in at his Dutch grandmother's place. Rehab was nicer than he remembered during his early days of detox. This was the _cool_ rehab.

He was trying. Really hard. The therapists were doing their best to help him familiarize with his "new" body, to make him feel as much independent as his condition let him: if it wasn't for this, he would've probably been the usual jerk to them, but he was starting to realize that being at least nice to people helped a lot through the recovering process. So much for being an ass. He was finding it unbelievable, but he was _happier_. Happier than before. He knew what it was for: the pain was gone. He didn't even care about the wheelchair. Actually, that incredibly light, very tech thingy was pretty cool, as he had to confess the day he managed to put up an interesting spectacle for all the department, doing his first wheelie in the corridor.

Nevertheless, there were nights he laid awake in his bed, focusing with all of his energy on the lower part of his body, desperately trying to _feel_ it. He never managed. It was gone forever, alongside his pain. But the pain had intruded so much in his previous life, that despite having to be an invalid for the rest of his life he would have never switched back to _that_. That was why he was happier: being pain free had let the best of him out.

House pressed the button to lift the head of his bed: if there was something he really couldn't get to do, it was sitting up by himself. As soon as the moving mechanism got him seated, he held out his right arm and grabbed one of the back handles of his wheelchair parked beside, pulling it up to meet the edge of the mattress. It was all set now, so he pointed his palms against the mattress and started forcing his way to the side, the upper part of his body dragging the lower one until he found himself set into the wheelchair with his back and bottom, legs still resting on the bed. He took a break and tilted his head back against the neck support, breathing heavily as he regained his energies to make it to the last part of the whole process. When he felt ready, he grabbed his legs as if he was trying to prop them onto his chest, but instead he just lifted them from where they laid, arms wrapped around them, and shifted them to the limb support, making sure his feet met the footrest plates. Another break. _Dammit, he was almost out of breath_.

House adjusted the straps on his chest and legs: this was his least favorite part of the whole thing, but he had already complained in his dysfunctional way to each and every therapist and nurse in the previous months. When they had agreed to let him do it his way, significantly looking at each other, the fact that he couldn't feel anything down below the nipples had had an inglorious victory over his stubbornness, as he had found himself uncomfortably sliding down the wheelchair by the time he had reached the vending machine twenty feet from his room. So the straps were kinda needed, as the neck support was, since he couldn't sustain his head upright for more than few minutes.

House propelled himself out of the room, his hands clenched on the metal handrims, moving his wheelchair through the corridor: it was smooth, very silent and incredibly fast. He flashed a smile at himself as he pictured the first time of his pager going off when he'd be back to work with the team, in his real office. He imagined his spectacular arrival, peeling out as he burst into the patient room: that was way better than slapping his cane upon the bed yelling he was dr. House. With a smirk imprinted on his face, House swiftly reached the elevator and five minutes later he was outside.

The hospital park was full of people enjoying lunchtime, so he wheeled himself to the most solitary corner he managed to find: he parked the wheelchair and rested there, facing the Carnegie lake's lazy surface slightly ruffled by the breeze of upcoming springtime. He took short, close range breaths, the only ones the reduced mobility in his chest muscles allowed him. He started to feel really tired from the whole stroll in the park and panicked a little at the thought of having to come back inside. Those were the times when he really felt down, realizing he was so weak and needy, no matter how he tried to hide it. He shouldn't be on his own for too much, in case moments like that happened: what if he couldn't find the strength to propel the wheelchair back inside? The brave face he put on every time there were other people around him dissipated in thin air. He tried to calm down, squeezing the handrims: he closed his eyes and released his breath, hardly holding back the feeling of claustrophobia that was starting to seize him despite being in an open place: _nobody was coming_. _He was trapped in his dead body_.

Then someone came from behind, making the grass creak, and approached him. He couldn't turn his head to see who it was, but he was sure of that as soon as he got to smell that unmistakable perfume. He felt the touch of a warm palm squeezing his shoulder, then finally saw her crouch at his left side, placing a hand on his cheek to look at him face to face.

"House... We couldn't find you. Are you ok?"

She looked very concerned and yet so beautiful he had to recollect himself before even thinking of an answer.

"What the hell are you doing here Cuddy?"  
That was him. She raised a smile and sarcastically replied.

"It's nice too see you too."

"I'm ok."

Cuddy had a better look at him and saw he'd probably been crying. A little. She realized how much of a brave persona he must have always shown to them, to feel the need to come cry in the middle of nowhere facing a deserted lake at lunchtime. His blue eyes pierced her.

"_I'm ok._"

"I know."

Now _that_ was surprising: she apparently believed him. Anyway, he was telling the truth: it had been a rough hour, but he was really holding on: he wasn't feeling so trapped and helpless anymore. Everyone needs a break from braveness, from time to time.

"Now you do me a favor and go..."

He couldn't finish. Cuddy let her fingers slip from his cheek to his lips and silenced him, as she came closer and closer. House couldn't do anything but let her into his mouth, gently parting his lips as she was coming in with all the delicateness she was capable of. It was a long, deep kiss: she was still crouched on her knees at his side, to better reach him without making him uncomfortable. With her right hand she took his left one from the armrest of the wheelchair and held it onto her breast, while lifting the back of his head from the neck support, sustaining it with her left one, whose wrist he grabbed while deepening the kiss. That was the weirdest arrangement ever, but House was so overwhelmed by the sudden, unplanned turn the events had just taken, that he didn't even mind. As they quit kissing Cuddy fell onto the grass, exhausted by the uncomfortable position, and rested her head on House's knees.

He lifted his eyes up to the sky, feeling completely exposed, still incredulous. He had told Wilson he didn't know what to do with her, but he knew he had to do something: he was just... waiting for the right time. Whilst, she had never quit coming to his room at night as he was pretending to sleep not to make her feel awkward. He knew she had practically moved all her stuff to the small room in the back of her office, so that she didn't have to rush back home at dawn to change and shower before going back to work. He desperately wanted her and felt like the time had come, but there were things to be pondered, and none of them was in his favor. House choked those embarrassing tears.

_Crap, why do I have to burst out crying in the middle of a make-out session?_

"Cuddy."

She stared up at him.

"Yes?"

"You don't want to do this to yourself."

She sat up.

"What are you talking about?"

"_This_. Me."

_Here he was_. She had been waiting for this to come up.

"Why?"

"Well, don't you see it for yourself?"

House raised his voice, almost hysterically, splaying his arms and lowering his eyes to show her all of his shrinking lower body, wheelchair, chest and leg straps, the atrophied muscles in his thighs and calves braced to the carbon fibre structure of the only thing allowing him to wheel around. She didn't even look, keeping her stare fixed into his.

"I don't care. Never did."

"You will. My body is a mess. I'm unsteady, _I'm gross_. I can't sustain my own head. I can't control my bowel movements. You're gonna care when my catheterization area gets infected. You're gonna care when I raise a fever because we had lunch on the beach, or I shiver the hell out of me because my body can't control its own temperature. You're gonna care when you have to hook me to an oxygen mask every night before even thinking of relaxing together in bed, in case we fall asleep and I run out of air next to you..."

Cuddy's eyes filled with tears. She knew all that, but hearing it from his own voice was more than she could handle. She tried to grab his hand, but he pulled it away.

"House, please..."

"You're gonna care when I need _you_ to help me out of bed hours before you used to even crack your eyes open, stretch my legs and neck, remove the oxygen and set me into the wheelchair to take me to the bathroom and cleanse my catheterization. You'll care when you have to dress me up _every morning _before going to work and_ every night _before going home, because, Cuddy, I can't even slip into a t-shirt or wear a jacket without having someone lift me from the backrest and support my head..."

That was pretty imaginable. Cuddy knew how serious House's condition was, but she was upset and amazed at once at his clear-headedness in the whole description. Still, he was having physical therapy and even if she would have to be with him every step of the way she also knew that he was improving. Very quickly and very much. His therapists had been reporting to her and Wilson since day one, so she was actually aware that he had already managed to do a lot of things by himself. House, though, seemed in so deep a despair that she had to realize he was talking like that because of her. His pessimism had its roots in his fear she would get tired of wheeling him through life. Cuddy started to get angry at him: what was he thinking? She was a grown-up, fully capable of her own decisions. She had been in love with him for years and had brought him back from death several times to be afraid of anything which didn't involve him being life-threatened, helping him with a jacket or cleansing his catheterization included. She wasn't doing this out of pity or self sacrifice: she was doing this out of love.

"House... There is a reason for me to not care."

But House couldn't simply stop. He felt unlovable, horrifying, gross and that broke his heart. He had to show her the worst case scenario. Or. He realized she was aware of that: he could see it in her eyes, which weren't showing _that_ kind of realization or surprise. Perhaps he had to show it to _himself_. So he just went on and didn't dare to wish she would stay. Who would?

"You _are_ gonna care when you have to help me take off my clothes and brace my legs and abdomen to a bath chair to make sure I don't slide off while I'm showering, _you-are-gonna-care_ when you have to quit your office and help me to the fucking _toilet _every four hours to make sure I don't_ crap my fucking pants _in front of my patients!"

Now he was definitely yelling, not even knowing where all the breath for this came from. He could see she was heartbroken, but that wasn't even related to them as a couple. It was the first time he was actually letting it all out in months, so he went on, certain that whatever the end of his show could be, at least he'd have pushed everything out. Cuddy was staring at him, part in denial, part in disbelief. But he still couldn't see any pity in her eyes: that definitely calmed him down. She wasn't being his nurse or doctor or therapist. She was his friend, his _loving_ friend. His friend _in love_ with him. His friend who _wanted_ him. The friend _he_ wanted. House lowered his voice down to a painful whisper.

"...You're gonna _care_ when we can't... when I want..."

He wanted to make love to her. Desperately. But he knew he would probably never be able to.

"House, don't..."

"...When you want me and I can't do a damn for you. Cuddy, I'm telling you: you _are_ going to care because I am an invalid, a real one now, and I'm going to be one for the rest of my life, no matter how spectacular wheelies I do in the corridor: I'm always gonna need help to... do things. We'd never get the chance to be a _normal_ couple and I don't want you to do this for me."

_This_. He had finally let _this_ out.

Cuddy looked at him in silence. She knew that such a high-level SCI would have probably caused him to find a psychogenic erection almost impossible. But who knew really? She was a doctor, and an endocrinologist, so she knew that it wasn't all from the testosterone: an erection wasn't all she wanted from him, neither she bothered about dressing him up every morning, nor cleansing his catheterization. She took his hand and squeezed it in hers.

"Have we tried yet?"

That took him by surprise. No, of course they hadn't tried.

"Then I guess there's room for us to find a way."

She stood up and came closer to him. He found himself fixedly watching at his thighs, incapable of formulating an invitation, but Cuddy knew him too well to expect him to openly sound the retreat. So she just sat down on him as delicately as she could, splaying her legs: he looked at her in surprise. How she always managed to interpret his encrypted silence had always been a mystery to him. And this was awkward.

"You're not really..."

"House. I don't care."

House leaned his head back on the neck rest, looking up at the sky, while she was starting to run her fingers on his neck, shoulders, face, wherever she knew he had sensation. He quickly smirked at her.

"Now, Cuddy, this is a _major_ turn on... You've chosen the wrong job."

That was his way to try and get over the awkwardness, but she didn't fall for it. She flashed him a smile.

"I love you. Now please shut up."

She kissed the crook of his neck, then moving up to his scruffy cheek and warm, soft lips, making him shiver and get goosebumps all over his arms, which were now wrapped around her waist. He kissed her back with desperate passion, while slipping his hands underneath her vest to finally cup her breasts. That was the moment she started unbuttoning his pants. He froze.

"What are you..."

"It's ok."

She kept him distracted by resuming the kissing and running her tongue in circles onto the silky crook behind his left ear. Cuddy sneaked into his pants and took his member in her hands, massaging delicately as she was trying to reach the region where she could trigger a reflex erection, which had to only cross the sacral neurological pathways, instead of the whole spine. She was helping him getting aroused, but he must not think of it or he would have failed, this one time and forever after. She was succeeding: House slipped underneath her bell-shaped satin skirt and started pulling aside her thong panties. He did that by reflex, not even knowing he was actually having an erection. She guided him into her body, sweetly, wrapping her hands around his chest and back to lift him up from the backrest, pulling his face up to her breasts and supporting his head as he was penetrating her. Then, hands steady on his hips, she began moving delicately, with small thrusts, doing the job he couldn't do. And they came almost at the same moment.

House couldn't believe he was having _sex_. He was so lost in the magic of that incredible moment, he didn't even realize he was feeling something. But then he did, and he just remained silent, a lone tear rolling down his cheek, dropping on Cuddy's half-naked shoulder. It was different than before. It was definitely the sensation of a whole sexuality, not just the mere feeling to be inside her. His damaged nerves were up above in his spine, but the sacral pathways to the genital region were intact and the incompleteness of the injury had left room for them to partially communicate with his manhood. He knew he would always need her help in this. But that was ok.

Cuddy rested his head back on the neck support and dropped on his chest, panting in exhaustion. House lifted his left arm and laid his palm on the back of her head, pressing her to his shoulder, where he could feel the warmth of her wet cheeks. They rested for some time, not a word being spoken between the two of them.

Then she lifted her head up from his chest and stood up.

"I told you I didn't care."

She placed the sweetest, most sincere kiss on his lips, which were already parting to reply to that comment. House watched her adjusting her vest and skirt and he couldn't help but smirk at her.

"That wasn't you. The luxury escort thong did the trick."

"For god's sake, House."  
She had to turn back to hide she was about to burst out laughing at his stupid, so un-romantic joke.

"Cuddy."

"Yes?"  
"You sure?"

"I'm sure."

"I love you."

She turned to him, now completely serious.

"I know."

She walked out of his sight and placed herself behind the wheelchair. Bending over him, she wrapped her hands around his chest, laying a kiss on his neck while adjusting the straps back.

"Hey. There's no need to tie me up to this evil thing. It's not like I'm going anywhere..."

"I don't want you to look all messy when we come back inside. Be a good boy and keep the straps on."

"Oh, come _on_..."

Last attempt at avoiding the straps.

"Those poor cripples all sprawled in their wheelchairs creep the hell out of me: you don't get to. You're still my Head of Diagnostics."

"So now patients give you the creeps. _Great_. You're such a fail as a doctor."

He smirked. She started pushing the wheelchair.

"I know I shouldn't bother. But I do. _And_. We had sex. Men I have sex with have to care about their image."

"_Men_ you have sex with..."

"Oh, shut the hell up, House."

But he didn't. Pissing Cuddy off was such a pleasure.

"I am a very refined _and_ attractive invalid: years of practice with the cane..."

"God, this was _gross_..."

House was partly joking: he had never cared about his image, now he felt just out of the game. But Cuddy raised a smile. He _was_ attractive. And that wasn't just her: House was still a very good looking, handsome man. His blue eyes shouted his wit out to the world. His biceps were getting very strong as he was doing a lot of work on them to be as independent as he could. She had felt safe in his hold. He was fascinating, sexy and clever. And an ass. In a wheelchair. And they had just had sex. _No, wait: made love_.

She stopped the wheelchair and slightly bended over him, whispering to his ear from behind.

"Now don't _ever_ think I'm gonna spoil you because you are my quadriplegic genius boyfriend. As soon as you get out of here, you come back to work. And clinic duty."  
"Are you kidding me?"  
He was the one kidding, though. He couldn't _freaking_ wait.

She smiled and grabbed the handles, pushing House's high-tech carbon fibre wheelchair from the fresh grass of the park to the nearest cobblestone pathway.

"You're still on the payroll."

"Bitch."

"Jackass."

They faded out in the sunlight.


End file.
